THE  BALL 


AND 


THE- CROSS 

By  G-K- CHESTERTON 


^ 


.n), 


[Jl.  . 


THE   BALL   AND   THE   CROSS 


BY   THE   SAME   AUTHOR 


HERETICS. 

ORTHODOXY. 

THE  NAPOLEON  OF  NOTTING 
HILL.  A  Romance.  Illustrated 
by  W.  Graham  Robertson. 

ALL  THINGS  CONSIDERED. 

GEORGE  BERNARD   SHAW. 


THE   BALL 


AND 


THE  CROSS 

BY 

GILBERT  K.  CHESTERTON 


NEW     YORK 

JOHN     LANE     COMPANY 

MCMIX 


Copyright,  1906,  by 
JOSEPH    \V.    DARTON 

Entered  at  Stationers'  Hall,  London,  England 

Copyright,  1909,  by 
JOHN   LANE  COMPANY 


PRINTED  AT  THE  TROW   PRESS,    NEW   YORK,    U.    S.    A. 


.UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
SANTA  BARBARA 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER 

I. — A  Discussion  Somewhat  in  the  Air 
II. — The  Religion  of  the  Stipendiary  Mag 
ISTRATE  .... 

III. — Some  Old  Curiosities  . 
IV. — A  Discussion  at  Dawn 
V. — The  Peacemaker   . 
VI. — The  Other  Philosopher 
VII. — The  Village  of  Grassley-in-the-Hole 
VIII. — An  Interlude  of  Argument 
IX. — The  Strange  Lady 
X. — The  Swords  Rejoined 
XI. — A  Scandal  in  the  Village 
XII. — The  Desert  Island 
XIII. — The  Garden  of  Peace 
XIV. — A  Museum  of  Souls     . 
XV. — The  Dream  of  MacIan 
XVI. — The  Dream  of  Turnbull 
XVII. — The  Idiot 
XVIII. — A  Riddle  of  Faces 
XIX. — The  Last  Parley  . 
XX.— Dies  Ir^  .... 


28 

49 
68 

91 
103 
126 
143 
15s 
182 
212 

237 
252 
268 
292 

30s 
324 
349 
371 
38s 


THE  BALL  AND   THE   CROSS 
CHAPTER   I 

A  DISCUSSION  SOMEWHAT  IN  THE  AIR 

The  flying  ship  of  Professor  Lucifer  sang 
through  the  skies  Hke  a  silver  arrow;  the  bleak 
white  steel  of  it,  gleaming  in  the  bleak  blue  empti- 
ness of  the  evening.  That  it  was  far  above  the 
earth  was  no  expression  for  it ;  to  the  two  men  in 
it,  it  seemed  to  be  far  above  the  stars.  The  pro- 
fessor had  himself  invented  the  flying  machine, 
and  had  also  invented  nearly  everything  in  it. 
Every  sort  of  tool  or  apparatus  had,  in  conse- 
quence, to  the  full,  that  fantastic  and  distorted 
look  which  belongs  to  the  miracles  of  science. 
For  the  world  of  science  and  evolution  is  far  more 
nameless  and  elusive  and  like  a  dream  than  the 
world  of  poetry  or  religion;  since  in  the  latter 
images  and  ideas  remain  themselves  eternally, 
while  it  is  the  whole  idea  of  evolution  that  identi- 
ties melt  into  each  other  as  they  do  in  a  nightmare. 


2        THE    BALL   AND    THE    CROSS 

All  the  tools  of  Professor  Lucifer  were  the  an- 
cient human  tools  gone  mad,  grown  into  un- 
recognisable shapes,  forgetful  of  their  origin,  for- 
getful of  their  names.  That  thing  which  looked 
like  an  enormous  key  with  three  wheels  was  really 
a  patent  and  very  deadly  revolver.  That  object 
which  seemed  to  be  created  by  the  entanglement  of 
two  corkscrews  was  really  the  key.  The  thing 
which  might  have  been  mistaken  for  a  tricycle 
turned  upside  down  was  the  inexpressibly  import- 
ant instrument  to  which  the  corkscrew,  was  the 
key.  All  these  things,  as  I  say,  the  professor  had 
invented ;  he  had  invented  everything  in  the  fly- 
ing ship,  with  the  exception,  perhaps,  of  himself. 
This  he  had  been  born  too  late  actually  to  inaugu- 
rate, but  he  believed,  at  least,  that  he  had  consid- 
erably improved  it. 

There  was,  however,  another  man  on  board,  so 
to  speak,  at  the  time.  Him,  also,  by  a  curious 
coincidence,  the  professor  had  not  invented,  and 
him  he  had  not  even  very  greatly  improved,  though 
he  had  fished  him  up  with  a  lasso  out  of  his  own 
back  garden,  in  Western  Bulgaria,  with  the  pure 
object  of  improving  him.  He  was  an  exceedingly 
holy  man,  almost  entirely  covered  with  white  hair. 
You  could  see  nothing  but  his  eyes,  and  he  seemed 


A    DISCUSSION  3 

to  talk  with  them.  A  monk  of  immense  learning 
and  acute  intellect  he  had  made  himself  happy  in 
a  little  stone  hut  and  a  little  stony  garden  in  the 
Balkans,  chiefly  by  writing  the  most  crushing  ref- 
utations and  exposures  of  certain  heresies,  the  last 
professors  of  which  had  been  burnt  (generally  by 
each  other)  precisely  i,i  19  years  previously.  They 
were  really  very  plausible  and  thoughtful  heresies, 
and  it  was  really  a  creditable  or  even  glorious  cir- 
cumstance, that  the  old  monk  had  been  intellectual 
enough  to  detect  their  fallacy;  the  only  misfor- 
tune was  that  nobody  in  the  modern  world  was 
intellectual  enough  even  to  understand  their  argu- 
ment. The  old  monk,  one  of  whose  names  was 
Michael,  and  the  other  a  name  quite  impossible 
to  remember  or  repeat  in  our  Western  civilisation, 
had,  however,  as  I  have  said,  made  himself  quite 
happy  while  he  was  in  a  mountain  hermitage  in 
the  society  of  wild  animals.  And  now  that  his 
luck  had  lifted  him  above  all  the  mountains  in  the 
society  of  a  wild  physicist,  he  made  himself  happy 
still. 

"  I  have  no  intention,  my  good  Michael,"  said 
Professor  Lucifer,  "  of  endeavouring  to  convert 
you  by  argument.  The  imbecility  of  your  tradi- 
tions can  be  quite  finally  exhibited  to  anybody  with 


4        THE    BALL   AND    THE    CROSS 

mere  ordinary  knowledge  of  the  world,  the  same 
kind  of  knowledge  which  teaches  us  not  to  sit  in 
draughts  or  not  to  encourage  friendliness  in  impe- 
cunious people.  It  is  folly  to  talk  of  this  or  that 
demonstrating  the  rationalist  philosophy.  Every- 
thing demonstrates  it.  Rubbing  shoulders  with 
men  of  all  kinds " 

"  You  will  forgive  me,"  said  the  monk,  meekly 
from  under  loads  of  white  beard,  "  but  I  fear  I 
do  not  understand;  was  it  in  order  that  1  might 
rub  my  shoulder  against  men  of  all  kinds  that 
you  put  me  inside  this  thing  ?  " 

"  An  entertaining  retort,  in  the  narrow  and 
deductive  manner  of  the  Middle  Ages,"  replied  the 
firofessor,  calmly,  "  but  even  upon  your  own  basis 
I  will  illustrate  my  point.  We  are  up  in  the  sky. 
In  your  religion  and  all  the  religions,  as  far  as  I 
know  (and  I  know  everything),  the  sky  is  made 
the  symbol  of  everything  that  is  sacred  and  merci- 
ful. Well,  now  you  are  in  the  sky,  you  know 
better.  Phrase  it  how  you  like,  twist  it  how  you 
like,  you  know  that  you  know  better.  You  know 
what  are  a  man's  real  feelings  about  the  heavens, 
when  he  finds  himself  alone  in  the  heavens,  sur^ 
rounded  by  the  heavens.  You  know  the  truth,  and 
the  truth  is  this.     The  heavens  are  evil,  the  sky 


A   DISCUSSION  5 

is  evil,  the  stars  are  evil.  This  mere  space,  this 
mere  quantity,  terrifies  a  man  more  than  tigers  or 
the  terrible  plague.  You  know  that  since  our  sci- 
ence has  spoken,  the  bottom  has  fallen  out  of  the 
Universe.  Now,  heaven  is  the  hopeless  thing, 
more  hopeless  than  any  hell.  Now,  if  there  be  any 
comfort  for  all  your  miserable  progeny  of  morbid 
apes,  it  must  be  in  the  earth,  underneath  you,  un- 
der the  roots  of  the  grass,  in  the  place  where  hell 
was  of  old.  The  fiery  crypts,  the  lurid  cellars  of 
the  under-world,  to  which  you  once  condemned 
the  wicked,  are  hideous  enough,  but  at  least  they 
are  more  homely  than  the  heaven  in  which  we  ride. 
And  the  time  will  come  when  you  will  all  hide 
in  them,  to  escape  the  horror  of  the  stars." 

"  I  hope  you  will  excuse  my  interrupting  you," 
said  Michael,  with  a  slight  cough,  "  but  I  have 
always  noticed " 

"  Go  on,  pray  go  on,"  said  Professor  Lucifer, 
radiantly,  "  I  really  like  to  draw  out  your  simple 
ideas." 

"  Well,  the  fact  is,"  said  the  other,  "  that  much 
as  I  admire  your  rhetoric  and  the  rhetoric  of  your 
school,  from  a  purely  verbal  point  of  view,  such 
little  study  of  you  and  your  school  in  human  his- 
tory as  I  have  been  enabled  to  make  has  led  me 


6        THE    BALL   AND    THE    CROSS 

to — er — rather  singular  conclusion,  which  I  find 
great  difficulty  in  expressing,  especially  in  a  for- 
eign language." 

"  Come,  come,"  said  the  Professor,  encourag- 
ingly, "  I'll  help  you  out.  How  did  my  view  strike 
you?" 

"  Well,  the  truth  is,  I  know  I  don't  express  it 
properly,  but  somehow  it  seemed  to  me  that  you 
always  convey  ideas  of  that  kind  with  most  elo- 
quence, when — er — when " 

"  Oh !  get  on,"  cried  Lucifer,  boisterously. 

"  Well,  in  point  of  fact  when  your  flying  ship 
is  just  going  to  run  into  something.  I  thought 
you  wouldn't  mind  my  mentioning  it,  but  it's  run- 
ning into  something  now." 

Lucifer  exploded  with  an  oath  and  leapt  erect, 
leaning  hard  upon  the  handle  that  acted  as  a  helm 
to  the  vessel.  For  the  last  ten  minutes  they  had 
been  shooting  downwards  into  great  cracks  and 
caverns  of  cloud.  Now,  through  a  sort  of  purple 
haze,  could  be  seen  comparatively  near  to  them 
what  seemed  to  be  the  upper  part  of  a  huge,  dark 
orb  or  sphere,  islanded  in  a  sea  of  cloud.  The 
Professor's  eyes  were  blazing  like  a  maniac's. 

"  It  is  a  new  world,"  he  cried,  with  a  dreadful 
mirth.     "  It  is  a  new  planet  and  it  shall  bear  my 


A    DISCUSSION  7 

name.  This  star  and  not  that  other  vulgar  one 
shall  be  *  Lucifer,  sun  of  the  morning.'  Here  we 
will  have  no  chartered  lunacies,  here  we  will  have 
no  gods.  Here  man  shall  be  as  innocent  as  the 
daisies,  as  innocent  and  as  cruel — here  the  intel- 
lect  " 

"  There  seems,"  said  Michael,  timidly,  "  to  be 
something  sticking  up  in  the  middle  of  it." 

"  So  there  is,"  said  the  Professor,  leaning  over 
the  side  of  the  ship,  his  spectacles  shining  with 
intellectual  excitement.  "  What  can  it  be  ?  It 
might  of  course  be  merely  a " 

Then  a  shriek  indescribable  broke  out  of  him 
of  a  sudden,  and  he  flung  up  his  arms  like  a  lost 
spirit.  The  monk  took  the  helm  in  a  tired  way; 
he  did  not  seem  much  astonished  for  he  came  from 
an  ignorant  part  of  the  world  in  which  it  is  not 
uncommon  for  lost  spirits  to  shriek  when  they  see 
the  curious  shape  which  the  Professor  had  just 
seen  on  the  top  of  the  mysterious  ball,  but  he  took 
the  helm  only  just  in  time,  and  by  driving  it  hard 
to  the  left  he  prevented  the  flying  ship  from 
smashing  into  St.  Paul's  Cathedral. 

A  plain  of  sad-coloured  cloud  lay  along  the 
level  of  the  top  of  the  Cathedral  dome,  so  that  the 
ball  and  cross  looked  like  a  buoy  riding  on  a 


8        THE    BALL   AND    THE    CROSS 

leaden  sea.  As  the  flying  ship  swept  towards  it, 
this  plain  of  cloud  looked  as  dry  and  definite  and 
rocky  as  any  grey  desert.  Hence  it  gave  to  the 
mind  and  body  a  sharp  and  unearthly  sensation 
when  the  ship  cut  and  sank  into  the  cloud  as  into 
any  common  mist,  a  thing  without  resistance. 
There  was,  as  it  were,  a  deadly  shock  in  the  fact 
that  there  was  no  shock.  It  was  as  if  they  had 
cloven  into  ancient  cliffs  like  so  much  butter. 
But  sensations  awaited  them  which  were  much 
stranger  than  those  of  sinking  through  the  solid 
earth.  For  a  moment  their  eyes  and  nostrils  were 
stopped  with  darkness  and  opaque  cloud ;  then  the 
darkness  warmed  into  a  kind  of  brown  fog.  And 
far,  far  below  them  the  brown  fog  fell  until  it 
warmed  into  fire.  Through  the  dense  London  at- 
mosphere they  could  see  below  them  the  flaming 
London  lights;  lights  which  lay  beneath  them  in 
squares  and  oblongs  of  fire.  The  fog  and  fire 
were  mixed  in  a  passionate  vapour ;  you  might  say 
that  the  fog  was  drowning  the  flames;  or  you 
might  say  that  the  flames  had  set  the  fog  on  fire. 
Beside  the  ship  and  beneath  it  (for  it  swung  just 
under  the  ball),  the  immeasurable  dome  itself  shot 
out  and  down  into  the  dark  like  a  combination  of 
voiceless  cataracts.     Or  it  was  like  some  cycle- 


A   DISCUSSION  9 

pean  sea-beast  sitting  above  London  and  letting 
down  its  tentacles  bewilderingly  on  every  side, 
a  monstrosity  in  that  starless  heaven.  For  the 
clouds  that  belonged  to  London  had  closed  over 
the  heads  of  the  voyagers  sealing  up  the  entrance 
of  the  upper  air.  They  had  broken  through  a 
roof  and  come  into  a  temple  of  twilight. 

They  were  so  near  to  the  ball  that  Lucifer  leaned 
his  hand  against  it,  holding  the  vessel  away,  as 
men  push  a  boat  off  from  a  bank.  Above  it  the 
cross  already  draped  in  the  dark  mists  of  the  bor- 
derland was  shadowy  and  more  awful  in  shape  and 
size. 

Professor  Lucifer  slapped  his  hand  twice  lipon 
the  surface  of  the  great  orb  as  if  he  were  caressing 
some  enormous  animal.  "  This  is  the  fellow,"  he 
said,  "  this  is  the  one  for  my  money." 

"  May  I  with  all  respect  inquire,"  asked  the  old 
monk,  "  what  on  earth  you  are  talking  about?  " 

"  Why  this,"  cried  Lucifer,  smiting  the  ball 
again,  "  here  is  the  only  symbol,  my  boy.  So  fat. 
So  satisfied.  Not  like  that  scraggy  individual, 
stretching  his  arms  in  stark  weariness."  And  he 
pointed  up  to  the  cross,  his  face  dark  with  a  grin. 
"  I  was  telling  you  just  now,  Michael,  that  I  can 
prove  the  best  part  of  the  rationalist  case  and  the 


lo      THE    BALL   AND    THE    CROSS 

Christian  humbug  from  any  symbol  you  Hked  to 
give  me,  from  any  instance  I  came  across.  Here 
is  an  instance  with  a  vengeance.  What  could  pos- 
sibly express  your  philosophy  and  my  philosophy 
better  than  the  shape  of  that  cross  and  the  shape 
of  this  ball  ?  This  globe  is  reasonable ;  that  cross 
is  unreasonable.  It  is  a  four-legged  animal,  with 
one  leg  longer  than  the  others.  The  globe  is  in- 
evitable. The  cross  is  arbitrary.  Above  all  the 
globe  is  at  unity  with  itself ;  the  cross  is  primarily 
and  above  all  things  at  enmity  with  itself.  The 
cross  is  the  conflict  of  two  hostile  lines,  of  irre- 
concilable direction.  That  silent  thing  up  there  is 
essentially  a  collision,  a  crash,  a  struggle  in  stone. 
Pah!  that  sacred  symbol  of  yours  has  actually 
given  its  name  to  a  description  of  desperation  and 
muddle.  When  we  speak  of  men  at  once  ignorant 
of  each  other  and  frustrated  by  each  other,  we 
say  they  are  at  cross-purposes.  Away  with  the 
thing!  The  very  shape  of  it  is  a  contradiction 
in  terms." 

"  What  you  say  is  perfectly  true,"  said  Michael, 
with  serenity.  "  But  we  like  contradictions  in 
terms.  Man  is  a  contradiction  in  terms;  he  is  a 
beast  whose  superiority  to  other  beasts  consists 
in  having  fallen.     That  cross  is,  as  you  say,  an 


A    DISCUSSION  II 

eternal  collision;  so  am  I.  That  is  a  struggle  in 
stone.  Every  form  of  life  is  a  struggle  in  flesh. 
The  shape  of  the  cross  is  irrational,  just  as  the 
shape  of  the  human  animal  is  irrational.  You  say 
the  cross  is  a  quadruped  with  one  limb  longer  than 
the  rest.  I  say  man  is  a  quadruped  who  only  uses 
two  of  his  legs." 

The  Professor  frowned  thoughtfully  for  an  in- 
stant, and  said  :  "  Of  course  everything  is  relative, 
and  I  would  not  deny  that  the  element  of  struggle 
and  self-contradiction,  represented  by  that  cross, 
has  a  necessary  place  at  a  certain  evolutionary 
stage.  But  surely  the  cross  is  the  lower  develop- 
ment and  the  sphere  the  higher.  After  all  it  is 
easy  enough  to  see  what  is  really  wrong  with 
Wren's  architectural  arrangement." 

"And  what  is  that,  pray?"  inquired  Michael, 
meekly. 

"  The  cross  is  on  top  of  the  ball,"  said  Pro- 
fessor Lucifer,  simply.  "  That  is  surely  wrong. 
The  ball  should  be  on  top  of  the  cross.  The  cross 
is  a  mere  barbaric  prop;  the  ball  is  perfection. 
The  cross  at  its  best  is  but  the  bitter  tree  of  man's 
history ;  the  ball  is  the  rounded,  the  ripe  and  final 
fruit.  And  the  fruit  should  be  at  the  top  of  the 
tree,  not  at  the  bottom  of  it." 


12      THE    BALL   AND    THE    CROSS 

"  Oh !  "  said  the  monk,  a  wrinkle  coming  into 
his  forehead,  "  so  you  think  that  in  a  rationaHs- 
tic  scheme  of  symboHsm  the  ball  should  be  on  top 
of  the  cross  ?  " 

"  It  sums  up  my  whole  allegory,"  said  the  pro- 
fessor. 

"  Well,  that  is  really  very  interesting,"  resumed 
Michael,  slowly,  "  because  I  think  in  that  case  you 
would  see  a  most  singular  effect,  an  effect  that 
has  generally  been  achieved  by  all  those  able  and 
powerful  systems  which  rationalism,  or  the  re- 
ligion of  the  ball,  has  produced  to  lead  or  teach 
mankind.  You  would  see,  I  think,  that  thing  hap- 
pen which  is  always  the  ultimate  embodiment  and 
logical  outcome  of  your  logical  scheme." 

"  What  are  you  talking  about?  "  asked  Lucifer. 
"  What  would  happen  ?  " 

*'  I  mean  it  would  fall  down,"  said  the  monk, 
looking  wistfully  into  the  void. 

Lucifer  made  an  angry  movement  and  opened 
his  mouth  to  speak,  but  Michael,  with  all  his  air 
of  deliberation,  was  proceeding  before  he  could 
bring  out  a  word. 

"  I  once  knew  a  man  like  you,  Lucifer,"  he  said, 
with  a  maddening  m^inotony  and  slowness  of  ar- 
ticulation.   "  He  took  this " 


A   DISCUSSION  13 

"  There  is  no  man  like  me,"  cried  Lucifer,  with 
a  violence  that  shook  the  ship. 

"  As  I  was  observing,"  continued  Michael, 
**  this  man  also  took  the  view  that  the  symbol  of 
Christianity  was  a  symbol  of  savagery  and  all  un- 
reason. His  history  is  rather  amusing.  It  is  also 
a  perfect  allegory  of  what  happens  to  rationalists 
like  yourself.  He  began,  of  course,  by  refusing 
to  allow  a  crucifix  in  his  house,  or  round  his  wife's 
neck,  or  even  in  a  picture.  He  said,  as  you  say, 
that  it  was  an  arbitrary  and  fantastic  shape,  that 
it  was  a  monstrosity,  loved  because  it  was  para- 
doxical. Then  he  began  to  grow  fiercer  and  more 
eccentric ;  he  would  batter  the  crosses  by  the  road- 
side; for  he  lived  in  a  Roman  Catholic  country. 
Finally  in  a  height  of  frenzy  he  climbed  the  steeple 
of  the  Parish  Church  and  tore  down  the  cross, 
waving  it  in  the  air,  and  uttering  wild  soliloquies 
up  there  under  the  stars.  Then  one  still  summer 
evening  as  he  was  wending  his  way  homewards, 
along  a  lane,  the  devil  of  his  madness  came  upon 
him  with  a  violence  and  transfiguration  which 
changes  the  world.  He  was  standing  smoking, 
for  a  moment,  in  the  front  of  an  interminable  line 
of  palings,  when  his  eyes  were  opened.  Not  a 
light  shifted,  not  a  leaf  stirred,  but  he  saw  as  if 


14      THE    BALL    AND    THE    CROSS 

by  a  sudden  change  in  the  eyesight  that  this  pahng 
was  an  army  of  innumerable  crosses  Hnked  to- 
gether over  hill  and  dale.  And  he  whirled  up  his 
heavy  stick  and  went  at  it  as  if  at  an  army.  Mile 
after  mile  along  his  homeward  path  he  broke  it 
down  and  tore  it  up.  For  he  hated  the  cross  and 
every  paling  is  a  wall  of  crosses.  When  he  re- 
turned to  his  house  he  was  a  literal  madman.  He 
sat  upon  a  chair  and  then  started  up  from  it  for 
the  cross-bars  of  the  carpentry  repeated  the  intol- 
erable image.  He  flung  himself  upon  a  bed  only 
to  remember  that  this,  too,  like  all  workmanlike 
things,  was  constructed  on  the  accursed  plan.  He 
broke  his  furniture  because  it  was  made  of  crosses. 
He  burnt  his  house  because  it  was  made  of  crosses. 
He  was  found  in  the  river." 

Lucifer  was  looking  at  him  with  a  bitten  lip. 

"  Is  that  story  really  true?  "  he  asked. 

"  Oh,  no/'  said  Michael,  airily.  "  It  is  a  para- 
ble. It  is  a  parable  of  you  and  all  your  rational- 
ists. You  begin  by  breaking  up  the  Cross;  but 
you  end  by  breaking  up  the  habitable  world.  We 
leave  you  saying  that  nobody  ought  to  join  the 
Church  against  his  will.  When  we  meet  you  again 
you  are  saying  that  no  one  has  any  will  to  join 
it  with.     We  leave  you  saying  that  there  is  no 


A    DISCUSSION  15 

such  place  as  Eden.  We  find  you  saying  that  there 
is  no  such  place  as  Ireland.  You  start  by  hating 
the  irrational  and  you  come  to  hate  everything, 
for  everything  is  irrational  and  so " 

Lucifer  leapt  upon  him  with  a  cry  like  a  wild 
beast's.  "  Ah,"  he  screamed,  "  to  every  man  his 
madness.  You  are  mad  on  the  cross.  Let  it  save 
you." 

And  with  a  herculean  energy  he  forced  the 
monk  backwards  out  of  the  reeling  car  on  to  the 
upper  part  of  the  stone  ball.  Michael,  with  as 
abrupt  an  agility,  caught  one  of  the  beams  of  the 
cross  and  saved  himself  from  falling.  At  the  same 
instant  Lucifer  drove  down  a  lever  and  the  ship 
shot  up  with  him  in  it  alone. 

"  Ha !  ha !  "  he  yelled,  "  what  sort  of  a  support 
do  you  find  it,  old  fellow  ?  " 

"  For  practical  purposes  of  support,"  replied 
Michael,  grimly,  "  it  is  at  any  rate  a  great  deal 
better  than  the  ball.  May  I  ask  if  you  are  going 
to  leave  me  here?  " 

"  Yes,  yes.  I  mount !  I  mount !  "  cried  the  Pro- 
fessor in  ungovernable  excitement.  "  Altiora  peto. 
My  path  is  upward." 

"  How  often  have  you  told  me.  Professor,  that 
there  is  really  no  up  or  down  in  space?"  said 


i6      THE    BALL    AND    THE    CROSS 

the  monk.  "  I  shall  mount  up  as  much  as  you 
will." 

"  Indeed,"  said  Lucifer,  leering  over  the  side  of 
the  flying  ship.  "  May  I  ask  what  you  are  going 
to  do?" 

The  monk  pointed  downward  at  Ludgate  Hill. 
"  I  am  going,"  he  said^  "  to  climb  up  into  a  star." 

Those  who  look  at  the  matter  most  superficially 
regard  paradox  as  something  which  belongs  to 
jesting  and  light  journalism.  Paradox  of  this 
kind  is  to  be  found  in  the  saying  of  the  dandy,  in 
the  decadent  comedy,  "  Life  is  much  too  import- 
ant to  be  taken  seriously."  Those  who  look  at 
the  matter  a  little  more  deeply  or  delicately  see 
that  paradox  is  a  thing  which  especially  belongs 
to  all  religions.  Paradox  of  this  kind  is  to  be 
found  in  such  a  saying  as  "  The  meek  shall  in- 
herit the  earth."  But  those  who  see  and  feel  the 
fundamental  fact  of  the  matter  know  that  paradox 
is  a  thing  that  belongs  not  to  religion  only,  but  to 
all  vivid  and  violent  practical  crises  of  human  liv- 
ing. This  kind  of  paradox  may  be  clearly  per- 
ceived by  anybody  who  happens  to  be  hanging  in 
mid-space,  clinging  to  one  arm  of  the  Cross  of 
St.  Paul's. 

Father  Michael  in  spite  of  his  years,  and  in 


A   DISCUSSION  17 

spite  of  his  asceticism  (or  because  of  it,  for  all  I 
know),  was  a  very  healthy  and  happy  old  gentle- 
man. And  as  he  swung  on  a  bar  above  the  sicken- 
ing emptiness  of  air,  he  realised^  with  that  sort  of 
dead  detachment  which  belongs  to  the  brains  of 
those  in  peril,  the  deathless  and  hopeless  con- 
tradiction which  is  involved  in  the  mere  idea  of 
courage.  He  was  a  happy  and  healthy  old  gentle- 
man and  therefore  he  was  quite  careless  about  it. 
And  he  felt  as  every  man  feels  in  the  taut  moment 
of  such  terror  that  his  chief  danger  was  terror 
itself;  his  only  possible  strength  would  be  a  cool- 
ness amounting  to  carelessness,  a  carelessness 
amounting  almost  to  a  suicidal  swagger.  His  one 
wild  chance  of  coming  out  safely  would  be  in  not 
too  desperately  desiring  to  be  safe.  There  might 
be  footholds  down  that  awful  fagade,  if  only  he 
could  not  care  whether  they  were  footholds  or  no. 
If  he  were  foolhardy  he  might  escape;  if  he  were 
wise  he  would  stop  where  he  was  till  he  dropped 
from  the  cross  like  a  stone.  And  this  antinomy 
kept  on  repeating  itself  in  his  mind,  a  contradic- 
tion as  large  and  staring  as  the  immense  contra- 
diction of  the  Cross ;  he  remembered  having  often 
heard  the  words,  "  Whosoever  shall  lose  his  life 
the  same  shall  save  it."     He  remembered  with  a 


i8      THE    BALL    AND    THE    CROSS 

sort  of  strange  pity  that  this  had  always  been  made 
to  mean  that  whoever  lost  his  physical  life  should 
save  his  spiritual  life.  Now  he  knew  the  truth 
that  is  known  to  all  fighters,  and  hunters,  and 
climbers  of  cliffs.  He  knew  that  even  his  animal 
life  could  only  be  saved  by  a  considerable  readi- 
ness to  lose  it. 

Some  will  think  it  improbable  that  a  human  soul 
swinging  desperately  in  mid-air  should  think  about 
philosophical  inconsistencies.  But  such  extreme 
states  are  dangerous  things  to  dogmatise  about. 
Frequently  they  produce  a  certain  useless  and  joy- 
less activity  of  the  mere  intellect,  thought  not  only 
divorced  from  hope  but  even  from  desire.  And 
if  it  is  impossible  to  dogmatise  about  such  states, 
it  is  still  more  impossible  to  describe  them.  To 
this  spasm  of  sanity  and  clarity  in  Michael's  mind 
succeeded  a  spasm  of  the  elemental  terror ;  the  ter- 
ror of  the  animal  in  us  which  regards  the  whole 
universe  as  its  enemy ;  which,  when  it  is  victorious, 
has  no  pity,  and  so,  when  it  is  defeated  has  no 
imaginable  hope.  Of  that  ten  minutes  of  terror  it 
is  not  possible  to  speak  in  human  words.  But  then 
again  in  that  damnable  darkness  there  began  to 
grow  a  strange  dawn  as  of  grey  and  pale  silver. 
And  of  this  ultimate  resignation  or  certainty  it  is 


A   DISCUSSION  19 

even  less  possible  to  write ;  it  is  something  stranger 
than  hell  itself;  it  is  perhaps  the  last  of  the  secrets 
of  God.  At  the  highest  crisis  of  some  incurable 
anguish  there  will  suddenly  fall  upon  the  man  the 
stillness  of  an  insane  contentment.  It  is  not  hope, 
for  hope  is  broken  and  romantic  and  concerned 
with  the  future;  this  is  complete  and  of  the  pres- 
ent. It  is  not  faith,  for  faith  by  its  very  nature 
is  fierce,  and  as  it  were  at  once  doubtful  and  de- 
fiant; but  this  is  simply  a  satisfaction.  It  is  not 
knowledge,  for  the  intellect  seems  to  have  no  par- 
ticular part  in  it.  Nor  is  it  (as  the  modern  idiots 
would  certainly  say  it  is)  a  mere  numbness  or 
negative  paralysis  of  the  powers  of  grief.  It  is 
not  negative  in  the  least ;  it  is  as  positive  as  good 
news.  In  some  sense,  indeed,  it  is  good  news.  It 
seems  almost  as  if  there  were  some  equality  among 
things,  some  balance  in  all  possible  contingencies 
which  we  are  not  permitted  to  know  lest  we  should 
learn  indifference  to  good  and  evil,  but  which  is 
sometimes  shown  to  us  for  an  instant  as  a  last  aid 
in  our  last  agony. 

Michael  certainly  could  not  have  given  any  sort 
of  rational  account  of  this  vast  unmeaning  satis- 
faction which  soaked  through  him  and  filled  him 
to  the  brim.     He  felt  with  a  sort  of  half-witted 


20      THE    BALL    AND    THE    CROSS 

lucidity  that  the  cross  was  there,  and  the  "ball 
was  there,  and  the  dome  was  there,  that  he  was 
going  to  cHmb  down  from  them,  and  that  he  did 
not  mind  in  the  least  whether  he  was  killed  or 
not.  This  mysterious  mood  lasted  long  enough 
to  start  him  on  his  dreadful  descent  and  to  force 
him  to  continue  it.  But  six  times  before  he 
reached  the  highest  of  the  outer  galleries  terror 
had  returned  on  him  like  a  flying  storm  of  dark- 
ness and  thunder.  By  the  time  he  had  reached  that 
place  of  safety  he  almost  felt  (as  in  some  impossi- 
ble fit  of  drunkenness)  that  he  had  two  heads; 
one  was  calm,  careless,  and  efficient ;  the  other  saw 
the  danger  like  a  deadly  map,  was  wise,  careful, 
and  useless.  He  had  fancied  that  he  would  have 
to  let  himself  vertically  down  the  face  of  the  whole 
building.  When  he  dropped  into  the  upper  gallery 
he  still  felt  as  far  from  the  terrestrial  globe  as  if 
he  had  only  dropped  from  the  sun  to  the  moon. 
He  paused  a  little,  panting  in  the  gallery  under  the 
ball,  and  idly  kicked  his  heels,  moving  a  few  yards 
along  it.  And  as  he  did  so  a  thunderbolt  struck 
his  soul.  A  man,  a  heavy,  ordinary  man,  with  a 
composed  indifferent  face,  and  a  prosaic  sort  of 
uniform,  with  a  row  of  buttons,  blocked  his  way. 
Michael  had  no  mind  to  wonder  whether  this  solid 


A   DISCUSSION  21 

astonished  man,  with  the  brown  mustache  and  the 
nickel  buttons,  had  also  come  on  a  flying  ship.  He 
merely  let  his  mind  float  in  an  endless  felicity  about 
the  man.  He  thought  how  nice  it  would  be  if 
he  had  to  live  up  in  that  gallery  with  that  one  man 
for  ever.  He  thought  how  he  would  luxuriate  in 
the  nameless  shades  of  this  man's  soul  and  then 
hear  with  an  endless  excitement  about  the  name- 
less shades  of  the  souls  of  all  his  aunts  and  uncles. 
A  moment  before  he  had  been  dying  alone.  Now 
he  was  living  in  the  same  world  with  a  man ;  an 
inexhaustible  ecstasy.  In  the  gallery  below  the 
ball  Father  Michael  had  found  that  man  who  is 
the  noblest  and  most  divine  and  most  lovable  of 
all  men,  better  than  all  the  saints,  greater  than  all 
the  heroes — man  Friday. 

In  the  confused  colour  and  music  of  his  new 
paradise,  Michael  heard  only  in  a  faint  and  distant 
fashion  some  remarks  that  this  beautiful  solid  man 
seemed  to  be  making  to  him ;  remarks  about  some- 
thing or  other  being  after  hours  and  against  or- 
ders. He  also  seemed  to  be  asking  how  Michael 
"  got  up  "  there.  This  beautiful  man  evidently 
felt  as  Michael  did  that  the  earth  was  a  star  and 
was  set  in  heaven. 

At  length  Michael  sated  himself  with  the  mere 


22      THE    BALL    AND    THE    CROSS 

sensual  music  of  the  voice  of  the  man  in  buttons. 
He  began  to  hsten  to  what  he  said,  and  even  to 
make  some  attempt  at  answering  a  question  v\-hich 
appeared  to  have  been  put  several  times  and  was 
now  put  with  some  excess  of  emphasis.  Alichael 
realised  that  the  image  of  God  in  nickel  buttons 
was  asking  him  how  he  had  come  there.  He  said 
that  he  had  come  in  Lucifer's  ship.  On  his  giving 
this  answer  the  demeanour  of  the  image  of  Gk)d 
underwent  a  remarkable  change.  From  address- 
ing Michael  gruffly,  as  if  he  were  a  malefactor, 
he  began  suddenly  to  speak  to  him  with  a  sort  of 
eager  and  feverish  amiability  as  if  he  were  a  child. 
He  seemed  particularly  anxious  to  coax  him  away 
from  the  balustrade.  He  led  him  by  the  arm  to- 
wards a  door  leading  into  the  building  itself, 
soothing  him  all  the  time.  He  gave  what  even 
Michael  (slight  as  was  his  knowledge  of  the 
world)  felt  to  be  an  improbable  account  of  the 
sumptuous  pleasures  and  varied  advantages  await- 
ing him  downstairs.  Michael  followed  him,  how- 
ever, if  only  out  of  politeness,  down  an  apparently 
interminable  spiral  of  staircase.  At  one  point  a 
door  opened.  Michael  stepped  through  it^  and  the 
unaccountable  man  in  buttons  leapt  after  him  and 
pinioned  him  where  he  stood.    But  he  only  wished 


A   DISCUSSION  23 

to  stand ;  to  stand  and  stare.  He  had  stepped  as 
it  were  into  another  infinity,  out  under  the  dome 
of  another  heaven.  But  this  was  a  dome  of 
heaven  made  by  man.  The  gold  and  green  and 
crimson  of  its  sunset  were  not  in  the  shapeless 
clouds  but  in  shapes  of  cherubim  and  seraphim, 
awful  human  shapes  with  a  passionate  plumage. 
Its  stars  were  not  above  but  far  below,  like  fallen 
stars  still  in  unbroken  constellations;  the  dome 
itself  was  full  of  darkness.  And  far  below,  lower 
even  than  the  lights,  could  be  seen  creeping  or  mo- 
tionless, great  black  masses  of  men.  The  tongiie 
of  a  terrible  organ  seemed  to  shake  the  very  air 
in  the  whole  void;  and  through  it  there  came  up 
to  Michael  the  sound  of  a  tongue  more  terrible; 
the  dreadful  everlasting  voice  of  man,  calling  to 
his  gods  from  the  beginning  to  the  end  of  the 
world.  Michael  felt  almost  as  if  he  were  a  god, 
and  all  the  voices  were  hurled  at  him. 

"  No,  the  pretty  things  aren't  here,"  said  the 
demi-god  in  buttons,  caressingly.  "  The  pretty 
things  are  downstairs.  You  come  along  with  me. 
There's  something  that  will  surprise  you  down- 
stairs; something  you  want  very  much  to  see." 

Evidently  the  man  in  buttons  did  not  feel  like 
a  god,  so  Michael  made  no  attempt  to  explain  his 


24      THE    BALL    AND    THE    CROSS 

feelings  to  him,  but  followed  him  meekly  enough 
down  the  trail  of  the  serpentine  staircase.  He  had 
no  notion  where  or  at  what  level  he  was.  He  was 
still  full  of  the  cold  splendour  of  space,  and  of 
what  a  French  writer  has  brilliantly  named  the 
"  vertigo  of  the  infinite,"  when  another  door 
opened,  and  with  a  shock  indescribable  he  found 
himself  on  the  familiar  level,  in  a  street  full  of 
faces,  with  the  houses  and  even  the  lamp-posts 
above  his  head.  He  felt  suddenly  happy  and  sud- 
denly indescribably  small.  He  fancied  he  had 
been  changed  into  a  child  again;  his  eyes  sought 
the  pavement  seriously  as  children's  do,  as  if  it 
were  a  thing  with  which  something  satisfactory 
could  be  done.  He  felt  the  full  warmth  of  that 
pleasure  from  which  the  proud  shut  themselves 
out;  the  pleasure  which  not  only  goes  with  hu- 
miliation, but  which  almost  is  humiliation.  Men 
who  have  escaped  death  by  a  hair  have  it,  and  men 
whose  love  is  returned  by  a  woman  unexpectedly, 
and  men  whose  sins  are  forgiven  them.  Every- 
thing his  eye  fell  on  it  feasted  on,  not  aestheti- 
cally, but  with  a  plain,  jolly  appetite  as  of  a  boy 
eating  buns.  He  relished  the  squareness  of  the 
houses;  he  liked  their  clean  angles  as  if  he  had 
just  cut  them  with  a  knife.     The  lit  squares  of 


A   DISCUSSION  25 

the  shop  windows  excited  him  as  the  young  are 
excited  by  the  lit  stage  of  some  promising  panto- 
mime. He  happened  to  see  in  one  shop  which 
projected  with  a  bulging  bravery  on  to  the  pave- 
ment some  square  tins  of  potted  meat,  and  it 
seemed  like  a  hint  of  a  hundred  hilarious  high 
teas  in  a  hundred  streets  of  the  world.  He 
was,  perhaps,  the  happiest  of  all  the  children 
of  men.  For  in  that  unendurable  instant  when 
he  hung,  half  slipping,  to  the  ball  of  St.  Paul's, 
the  whole  universe  had  been  destroyed  and  re- 
created. 

Suddenly  through  all  the  din  of  the  dark  streets 
came  a  crash  of  glass.  With  that  mysterious  sud- 
denness of  the  Cockney  mob,  a  rush  was  made  in 
the  right  direction,  a  dingy  office,  next  to  the  shop 
of  the  potted  meat.  The  pane  of  glass  was  lying 
in  splinters  about  the  pavement.  And  the  police 
already  had  their  hands  on  a  very  tall  young  man, 
with  dark,  lank  hair  and  dark,  dazed  eyes,  with 
a  grey  plaid  over  his  shoulder,  who  had  just 
smashed  the  shop  window  with  a  single  blow  of 
his  stick. 

"  I'd  do  it  again,"  said  the  young  man,  with  a 
furious  white  face.  "Anybody  would  have  done 
it.     Did  you  see  what  it  said?    I  swear  I'd  do  it 


26      THE    BALL   AND    THE    CROSS 

again."  Then  his  eyes  encountered  the  monkish 
habit  of  Michael,  and  he  pulled  off  his  grey  tarn 
o'shanter  with  the  gesture  of  a  Catholic. 

"  Father,  did  you  see  what  they  said  ?  "  he  cried, 
trembling.  "  Did  you  see  what  they  dared  to  say? 
I  didn't  understand  it  at  first.  I  read  it  half 
through  before  I  broke  the  window."  •   • 

Michael  felt  he  knew  not  how.  The  whole 
peace  of  the  world  was  pent  up  painfully  in  his 
heart.  The  new  and  childlike  world  which  he 
had  seen  so  suddenly,  men  had  not  seen  at  all. 
Here  they  were  still  at  their  old  bewildering,  par- 
donable, useless  quarrels,  with  so  much  to  be  said 
on  both  sides,  and  so  little  that  need  be  said  at  all. 
A  fierce  inspiration  fell  on  him  suddenly;  he 
would  strike  them  where  they  stood  with  the  love 
of  God.  They  should  not  move  till  they  saw  their 
own  sweet  and  startling  existence.  They  should 
not  go  from  that  place  till  they  went  home  em- 
bracing like  brothers  and  shouting  like  men  de- 
livered. From  the  Cross  from  which  he  had  fallen 
fell  the  shadow  of  its  fantastic  mercy;  and  the 
first  three  words  he  spoke  in  a  voice  like  a  silver 
trumpet,  held  men  as  still  as  stones.  Perhaps  if 
he  had  spoken  there  for  an  hour  in  his  illumination 
he  might  have  founded  a  religion  on  Ludgate  Hill. 


A    DISCUSSION  27 

But  the  heavy  hand  of  his  guide  fell  suddenly  on 
his  shoulder. 

"  This  poor  fellow  is  dotty,"  he  said  good- 
humouredly  to  the  crowd.  "  I  found  him  wan- 
dering in  the  Cathedral.  Says  he  came  in  a  flying 
ship.  Is  there  a  constable  to  spare  to  take  care  of 
him?" 

There  was  a  constable  to  spare.  Two  other  con- 
stables attended  to  the  tall  young  man  in  grey;  a 
fourth  concerned  himself  with  the  owner  of  the 
shop,  who  showed  some  tendency  to  be  turbulent. 
They  took  the  tall  young  man  away  to  a  magis- 
trate, whither  we  shall  follow  him  in  an  ensuing 
chapter.  And  they  took  the  happiest  man  in  the 
world  away  to  an  asylum. 


CHAPTER    II 

THE  RELIGION  OF  THE  STIPENDIARY  MAGISTRATE 

The  editorial  office  of  "  The  Atheist "  had  for 
some  years  past  become  less  and  less  prominently 
interesting  as  a  feature  of  Ludgate  Hill,  The 
paper  was  unsuited  to  the  atmosphere.  It  showed 
an  interest  in  the  Bible  unknown  in  the  district, 
and  a  knowledge  of  that  volume  to  which  nobody 
else  on  Ludgate  Hill  could  make  any  conspicuous 
claim.  It  was  in  vain  that  the  editor  of  "  The 
Atheist "  filled  his  front  window  with  fierce  and 
final  demands  as  to  what  Noah  in  the  Ark  did 
with  the  neck  of  the  giraffe.  It  was  in  vain  that 
he  asked  violently,  as  for  the  last  time,  how  the 
statement  "  God  is  Spirit  "  could  be  reconciled 
with  the  statement  "  The  earth  is  His  footstool." 
It  was  in  vain  that  he  cried  with  an  accusing  en- 
ergy that  the  Bishop  of  London  was  paid  £12,000 
a  year  for  pretending  to  believe  that  the  whale 
swallowed  Jonah.     It  was  in  vain  that  he  hung 

in  conspicuous  places  the  most  thrilling  scientific 

28 


THE    STIPENDIARY    MAGISTRATE      29 

calculations  about  the  width  of  the  throat  of  a 
whale.  Was  it  nothing  to  them  all  they  that 
passed  by?  Did  his  sudden  and  splendid  and 
truly  sincere  indignation  never  stir  any  of  the 
people  pouring  down  Ludgate  Hill  ?  Never.  The 
little  man  who  edited  "  The  Atheist "  would  rush 
from  his  shop  on  starlit  evenings  and  shake  his 
fist  at  St.  Paul's  in  the  passion  of  his  holy  war 
upon  the  holy  place.  He  might  have  spared  his 
emotion.  The  cross  at  the  top  of  St.  Paul's  and 
"  The  Atheist  "  shop  at  the  foot  of  it  were  alike 
remote  from  the  world.  The  shop  and  the  Cross 
were  equally  uplifted  and  alone  in  the  empty 
heavens. 

To  the  little  man  who  edited  "The  Atheist," 
a  fiery  little  Scotchman,  with  fiery,  red  hair  and 
beard,  going  by  the  name  of  Tumbull,  all  this 
decline  in  public  importance  seemed  not  so  much 
sad  or  even  mad,  but  merely  bewildering  and  un- 
accountable. He  had  said  the  worst  thing  that 
could  be  said ;  and  it  seemed  accepted  and  ignored 
like  the  ordinary  second  best  of  the  politicians. 
Every  day  his  blasphemies  looked  more  glaring, 
and  every  day  the  dust  lay  thicker  upon  them. 
It  made  him  feel  as  if  he  were  moving  in  a  world 
of  idiots.    He  seemed  among  a  race  of  men  who 


30      THE    BALL    AND    THE    CROSS 

smiled  when  told  of  their  own  death,  or  looked 
vacantly  at  the  Day  of  Judgment.  Year  after  year 
went  by,  and  year  after  year  the  death  of  God  in  a 
shop  in  Ludgate  became  a  less  and  less  important 
occurrence.  All  the  forward  men  of  his  age  dis- 
couraged Turnbull.  The  socialists  said  he  was 
cursing  priests  when  he  should  be  cursing  capital- 
ists. The  artists  said  that  the  soul  was  most  spir- 
itual, not  when  freed  from  religion,  but  when 
freed  from  morality.  Year  after  year  went  by, 
and  at  last  a  man  came  by  who  treated  Mr.  Turn- 
bull's  secularist  shop  with  a  real  respect  and  seri- 
ousness. He  was  a  young  man  in  a  grey  plaid, 
and  he  smashed  the  window. 

He  was  a  young  man,  born  in  the  Bay  of  Aris- 
aig,  opposite  Rum  and  the  Isle  of  Skye.  His 
high,  hawklike  features  and  snaky  black  hair  bore 
the  mark  of  that  unknown  historic  thing  which 
is  crudely  called  Celtic,  but  which  is  probably  far 
older  than  the  Celts,  whoever  they  were.  He  was 
in  name  and  stock  a  Highlander  of  the  Macdon- 
alds ;  but  his  family  took,  as  was  common  in  such 
cases,  the  name  of  a  subordinate  sept  as  a  surname, 
and  for  all  the  purposes  which  could  be  answered 
in  London,  he  called  himself  Evan  Maclan.  He 
had  been  brought  up  in  some  loneliness  and  se- 


THE    STIPENDIARY    MAGISTRATE      31 

elusion  as  a  strict  Roman  Catholic,  in  the  midst 
of  that  little  wedge  of  Roman  Catholics  which  is 
driven  into  the  Western  Highlands.  And  he  had 
found  his  way  as  far  as  Fleet  Street,  seeking  some 
half-promised  employment,  without  having  prop- 
erly realised  that  there  were  in  the  world  any 
people  who  were  not  Roman  Catholics.  He  had 
uncovered  himself  for  a  few  moments  before  the 
statue  of  Queen  Anne,  in  front  of  St.  Paul's 
Cathedral,  under  the  firm  impression  that  it  was  a 
figure  of  the  Virgin  Mary.  He  was  somewhat 
surprised  at  the  lack  of  deference  shown  to  the 
figure  by  the  people  bustling  by.  He  did  not  un- 
derstand that  their  one  essential  historical  prin- 
ciple, the  one  law  truly  graven  on  their  hearts, 
was  the  great  and  comforting  statement  that 
Queen  Anne  is  dead.  This  faith  was  as  funda- 
mental as  his  faith,  that  Our  Lady  was  alive.  Any 
persons  he  had  talked  to  since  he  had  touched  the 
fringe  of  our  fashion  or  civilisation  had  been  by 
a  coincidence,  sympathetic  or  hypocritical.  Or  if 
they  had  spoken  some  established  blasphemies,  he 
had  been  unable  to  understand  them  merely  owing 
to  the  preoccupied  satisfaction  of  his  mind. 

On  that   fantastic   fringe  of  the   Gaelic   land 
where  he  walked  as  a  boy,  the  cliffs  were  as  fan- 


32      THE    BALL    AND    THE    CROSS 

tastic  as  the  clouds.  Heaven  seemed  to  humble 
itself  and  come  closer  to  the  earth.  The  common 
paths  of  his  little  village  began  to  climb  quite 
suddenly  and  seemed  resolved  to  go  to  heaven. 
The  sky  seemed  to  fall  down  towards  the  hills ;  the 
hills  took  hold  upon  the  sky.  In  the  sumptuous 
sunset  of  gold  and  purple  and  peacock  green  cloud- 
lets and  islets  were  the  same.  Evan  lived  like 
a  man  walking  on  a  borderland,  the  borderland 
between  this  world  and  another.  Like  so  many 
men  and  nations  who  grow  up  with  nature  and  the 
common  things,  he  understood  the  supernatural 
before  he  understood  the  natural.  He  had  looked 
at  dim  angels  standing  knee-deep  in  the  grass 
before  he  had  looked  at  the  grass.  He  knew  that 
Our  Lady's  robes  were  blue  before  he  knew  the 
wild  roses  round  her  feet  were  red.  The  deeper 
his  memory  plunged  into  the  dark  house  of  child- 
hood the  nearer  and  nearer  he  came  to  the  things 
that  cannot  be  named.  All  through  his  life  he 
thought  of  the  daylight  world  as  a  sort  of  divine 
debris,  the  broken  remainder  of  his  first  vision. 
The  skies  and  mountains  were  the  splendid  off- 
scourings of  another  place.  The  stars  were  lost 
jewels  of  the  Queen.  Our  Lady  had  gone  and 
left  the  stars  by  accident. 


THE    STIPENDIARY    MAGISTRATE     33 

His  private  tradition  was  equally  wild  and  un- 
worldly. His  great-grandfather  had  been  cut 
down  at  Culloden,  certain  in  his  last  instant  that 
God  would  restore  the  King.  His  grandfather, 
then  a  boy  of  ten,  had  taken  the  terrible  claymore 
from  the  hand  of  the  dead  and  hung  it  up  in  hig 
house,  burnishing  it  and  sharpening  it  for  sixty 
years,  to  be  ready  for  the  next  rebellion.  His 
father,  the  youngest  son  and  the  last  left  alive, 
had  refused  to  attend  on  Queen  Victoria  in  Scot- 
land. And  Evan  himself  had  been  of  one  piece 
wjth  his  progenitors ;  and  was  not  dead  with  them, 
but  alive  in  the  twentieth  century.  He  was  not  in 
the  least  the  pathetic  Jacobite  of  whom  we  read, 
left  behind  by  a  final  advance  of  all  things.  He 
was,  in  his  own  fancy,  a  conspirator,  fierce  and 
up  to  date.  In  the  long,  dark  afternoons  of  the 
Highland  winter,  he  plotted  and  fumed  in  the 
dark.  He  drew  plans  of  the  capture  of  London  on 
the  desolate  sand  of  Arisaig. 

When  he  came  up  to  capture  London,  it  was  not 
with  an  army  of  white  cockades,  but  with  a  stick 
and  a  satchel.  London  overawed  him  a  little,  not 
because  he  thought  it  grand  or  even  terrible,  but 
because  it  bewildered  him;  it  was  not  the  Golden 
City  or  even  hell;  it  was  Limbo.     He  had  one 


34      THE    BALL   AND    THE    CROSS 

shock  of  sentiment,  when  he  turned  that  wonder- 
ful corner  of  Fleet  Street  and  saw  St.  Paul's  sit- 
ting in  the  sky. 

"  Ah,"  he  said,  after  a  long  pause,  "  that  sort 
of  thing  was  built  under  the  Stuarts !  "  Then  with 
a  sour  grin  he  asked  himself  what  was  the  cor- 
responding monument  of  the  Brunswicks  and  the 
Protestant  Constitution.  After  some  warning,  he 
selected  a  sky-sign  of  some  pill. 

Half  an  hour  afterwards  his  emotions  left  him 
with  an  emptied  mind  on  the  same  spot.  And  it 
was  in  a  mood  of  mere  idle  investigation  that  he 
happened  to  come  to  a  standstill  opposite  the  of- 
fice of  "  The  Atheist."  He  did  not  see  the  word 
"  atheist,"  or  if  he  did,  it  is  quite  possible  that  he 
did  not  know  the  meaning  of  the  word.  Even  as 
it  was,  the  document  would  not  have  shocked  even 
the  innocent  Highlander,  but  for  the  troublesome 
and  quite  unforeseen  fact  that  the  innocent  High- 
lander read  it  stolidly  to  the  end ;  a  thing  unknown 
among  the  most  enthusiastic  subscribers  to  the 
paper,  and  calculated  in  any  case  to  create  a  new 
situation. 

With  a  smart  journalistic  instinct  characteris- 
tic of  all  his  school,  the  editor  of  "  The  Atheist  " 
had  put  first  in  his  paper  and  most  prominently  in 


THE    STIPENDIARY    MAGISTRATE      35 

his  window  an  article  called  "  The  Mesopotamian 
Mythology  and  its  Effects  on  the  Syriac  Folk 
Lore."  Mr.  Evan  Maclan  began  to  read  this  quite 
idly,  as  he  would  have  read  a  public  statement 
beginning  with  a  young  girl  dying  in  Brighton 
and  ending  with  Bile  Beans.  He  received  the 
very  considerable  amount  of  information  accumu- 
lated by  the  author  with  that  tired  clearness  of  the 
mind  which  children  have  on  heavy  summer  after- 
noons— that  tired  clearness  which  leads  them  to 
go  on  asking  questions  long  after  they  have  lost 
interest  in  the  subject  and  are  as  bored  as  their 
nurse.  The  streets  were  full  of  people  and  empty 
of  adventures.  He  might  as  well  know  about 
the  Gods  of  Mesopotamia  as  not;  so  he  flattened 
his  long,  lean  face  against  the  dim  bleak  pane  of 
the  window  and  read  all  there  was  to  read  about 
the  Mesopotamian  Gods.  He  read  how  the  Meso- 
potamians  had  a  God  named  Sho  (sometimes  pro- 
nounced Ji),  and  that  he  was  described  as  being 
very  powerful,  a  striking  similarity  to  some  ex- 
pressions about  Jahveh,  who  is  also  described  as 
having  power.  Evan  had  never  heard  of  Jahveh 
in  his  life,  and  imagining  him  to  be  some  other 
Mesopotamian  idol,  read  on  with  a  dull  curiosity. 
He  learnt  that  the  name  Sho,  under  its  third  form 


36      THE    BALL    AND    THE    CROSS 

of  Psa,  occurs  in  an  early  legend  which  describes 
how  the  deity,  after  the  manner  of  Jupiter  on  so 
many  occasions,  seduced  a  Virgin  and  begat  a 
hero.  This  hero,  whose  name  is  not  essential  to 
our  existence,  was,  it  was  said,  the  chief  hero  and 
Saviour  of  the  Mesopotamian  ethical  scheme. 
Then  followed  a  paragraph  giving  other  examples 
of  such  heroes  and  Saviours  being  born  of  some 
profligate  intercourse  between  God  and  mortal. 
Then  followed  a  paragraph — but  Evan  did  not  un- 
derstand it.  He  read  it  again  and  then  again. 
Then  he  did  understand  it.  The  glass  fell  in  ring- 
ing fragments  on  to  the  pavement,  and  Evan 
sprang  over  the  barrier  into  the  shop,  brandishing 
his  stick. 

"What  is  this?"  cried  little  Mr.  Turnbull, 
starting  up  with  hair  aflame.  "  How  dare  you 
break  my  window  ?  " 

"Because  it  was  the  quickest  cut  to  you," 
cried  Evan,  stamping.  "  Stand  up  and  fight, 
you  crapulous  coward.  You  dirty  lunatic, 
stand  up,  will  you?  Have  you  any  weapons 
here?" 

"  Are  you  mad  ?  "  asked  Turnbull,  glaring. 

"  Are  you  ?  "  cried  Evan.  "  Can  you  be  any- 
thing else  when  you  plaster  your  own  house  with 


THE    STIPENDIARY    MAGISTRATE     37 

that  God-defying  filth?  Stand  up  and  fight,  I 
say." 

A  great  light  like  dawn  came  into  Mr.  Turn- 
bull's  face.  Behind  his  red  hair  and  beard  he 
turned  deadly  pale  with  pleasure.  Here,  after 
twenty  lone  years  of  useless  toil,  he  had  his  re- 
ward. Some  one  was  angry  with  the  paper.  He 
bounded  to  his  feet  like  a  boy ;  he  saw  a  new  youth 
opening  before  him.  And  as  not  unfrequently 
happens  to  middle-aged  gentlemen  when  they  see 
a  new  youth  opening  before  them,  he  found  him- 
self in  the  presence  of  the  police. 

The  policemen,  after  some  ponderous  question- 
ings, collared  both  the  two  enthusiasts.  They 
were  more  respectful,  however,  to  the  young  man 
who  had  smashed  the  window,  than  to  the  mis- 
creant who  had  had  his  window  smashed.  There 
was  an  air  of  refined  mystery  about  Evan  Maclan, 
which  did  not  exist  in  the  irate  little  shopkeeper, 
an  air  of  refined  mystery  which  appealed  to  the 
policemen,  for  policemen,  like  most  other  English 
types,  are  at  once  snobs  and  poets.  Maclan  might 
possibly  be  a  gentleman,  they  felt;  the  editor 
manifestly  was  not.  And  the  editor's  fine  rational 
republican  appeals  to  his  respect  for  law,  and  his 
ardour  to  be  tried  by  his  fellow  citizens,  seemed 


38      THE    BALL    AND    THE    CROSS 

to  the  police  quite  as  much  gibberish  as  Evan's 
mysticism  could  have  done.  The  police  were  not 
used  to  hearing  principles,  even  the  principles  of 
their  own  existence. 

The  police  magistrate,  before  whom  they  were 
hurried  and  tried,  was  a  Mr.  Cumberland  Vane, 
a  cheerful,  middle-aged  gentleman,  honourably 
celebrated  for  the  lightness  of  his  sentences  and 
the  lightness  of  his  conversation.  He  occasionally 
worked  himself  up  into  a  sort  of  theoretic  rage 
about  certain  particular  offenders,  such  as  the  men 
who  took  pokers  to  their  wives,  talked  in  a  loose, 
sentimental  way  about  the  desirability  of  flogging 
them,  and  was  hopelessly  bewildered  by  the  fact 
that  the  wives  seemed  even  more  angry  with  him 
than  with  their  husbands.  He  was  a  tall,  spruce 
man,  with  a  twist  of  black  moustache  and  in- 
comparable morning  dress.  He  looked  like  a 
gentleman,  and  yet,  somehow,  like  a  stage  gen- 
tleman. 

He  had  often  treated  serious  crimes  against 
mere  order  or  property  with  a  humane  flippancy. 
Hence,  about  the  mere  breaking  of  an  editor's 
window,  he  was  almost  uproarious. 

"  Come,  Mr.  Maclan,  come,"  he  said,  leaning 
back  in  his  chair,  "  do  you  generally  enter  your 


THE    STIPENDIARY    MAGISTRATE      39 

friends'  houses  by  walking  through  the  glass  ?  " 
(Laughter.) 

"  He  is  not  my  friend,"  said  Evan,  with  the 
stolidity  of  a  dull  child. 

"  Not  your  friend,  eh  ?  "  said  the  magistrate, 
sparkling.  "  Is  he  your  brother-in-law  ?  "  (Loud 
and  prolonged  laughter.) 

"  He  is  my  enemy,"  said  Evan,  simply;  "  he  is 
the  enemy  of  God." 

Mr.  Vane  shifted  sharply  in  his  seat,  dropping 
the  eye-glass  out  of  his  eye  in  a  momentary  and 
not  unmanly  embarrassment. 

"  You  mustn't  talk  like  that  here,"  he  said, 
roughly,  and  in  a  kind  of  hurry,  "  that  has  noth- 
ing to  do  with  us." 

Evan  opened  his  great,  blue  eyes ;  "  God,"  he 
began. 

"  Be  quiet,"  said  the  magistrate,  angrily,  "  it 
is  most  undesirable  that  things  of  that  sort  should 
be  spoken  about — a — in  public,  and  in  an  or- 
dinary Court  of  Justice.  Religion  is — a — too 
personal  a  matter  to  be  mentioned  in  such  a 
place." 

"  Is  it?  "  answered  the  Highlander,  "  then  what 
did  those  policemen  swear  by  just  now?  " 

"  That  is  no  parallel,"  answered  Vane,  rather 


40      THE    BALL   AND    THE    CROSS 

irritably;  "  of  course  there  is  a  form  of  oath — to 
be  taken  reverently — reverently,  and  there's  an 
end  of  it.  But  to  talk  in  a  public  place  about  one's 
most  sacred  and  private  sentiments — well,  I  call 
it  bad  taste.  (Slight  applause.)  I  call  it  irrev- 
erent. I  call  it  irreverent,  and  I'm  not  specially 
orthodox  either." 

"  I  see  you  are  not,"  said  Evan,  "  but  I  am." 

"  We  are  wandering  from  the  point,"  said  the 
police  magistrate,  pulling  himself  together, 

"  May  I  ask  why  you  smashed  this  worthy  citi- 
zen's window  ?  " 

Evan  turned  a  little  pale  at  the  mere  memory, 
but  he  answered  with  the  same  cold  and  deadly 
literalism  that  he  showed  throughout. 

"  Because  he  blasphemed  Our  Lady." 

"  I  tell  you  once  and  for  all,"  cried  Mr.  Cum- 
berland Vane,  rapping  his  knuckles  angrily  on  the 
table,  "  I  tell  you,  once  for  all,  my  man,  that  I  will 
not  have  you  turning  on  any  religious  rant  or 
cant  here.  Don't  imagine  that  it  will  impress  me. 
The  most  religious  people  are  not  those  who  talk 
about  it.  (Applause.)  You  answer  the  questions 
and  do  nothing  else." 

"  I  did  nothing  else,"  said  Evan,  with  a  slight 
smile. 


THE    STIPENDIARY    MAGISTRATE     41 

"  Eh,"  cried  Vane,  glaring  through  his  eye- 
glass. 

"  You  asked  me  why  I  broke  his  window,"  said 
Maclan,  with  a  face  of  wood.  "  I  answered, 
*  Because  he  blasphemed  Our  Lady.'  I  had  no 
other  reason.  So  I  have  no  other  answer."  Vane 
continued  to  gaze  at  him  with  a  sternness  not 
habitual  to  him. 

"  You  are  not  going  the  right  way  to  work. 
Sir,"  he  said,  with  severity.  "  You  are  not  going 
the  right  way  to  work  to — a — have  your  case 
treated  with  special  consideration.  If  you  had 
simply  expressed  regret  for  what  you  had  done, 
I  should  have  been  strongly  inclined  to  dismiss 
the  matter  as  an  outbreak  of  temper.  Even  now, 
if  you  say  that  you  are  sorry  I  shall  only " 

"  But  I  am  not  in  the  least  sorry,"  said  Evan, 
"  I  am  very  pleased." 

"  I  really  believe  you  are  insane,"  said  the  sti- 
pendiary, indignantly,  for  he  had  really  been 
doing  his  best  as  a  good-natured  man,  to  compose 
the  dispute.  "  What  conceivable  right  have  you 
to  break  other  people's  windows  because  their 
opinions  do  not  agree  with  yours?  This  man 
only  gave  expression  to  his  sincere  belief." 

"  So  did  I,"  said  the  Highlander. 


42      THE    BALL    AND    THE    CROSS 

"  And  who  are  you  ?  "  exploded  Vane.  "  Are 
your  views  necessarily  the  right  ones?  Are  you 
necessarily  in  possession  of  the  truth  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Maclan. 

The  magistrate  broke  into  a  contemptuous 
laugh. 

"  Oh,  you  want  a  nurse  to  look  after  you,"  he 
said.    "  You  must  pay  £io." 

Evan  Maclan  plunged  his  hands  into  his  loose 
grey  garments  and  drew  out  a  queer  looking 
leather  purse.  It  contained  exactly  twelve  sover- 
eigns. He  paid  down  the  ten,  coin  by  coin,  in 
silence,  and  equally  silently  returned  the  remain- 
ing two  to  the  receptacle.  Then  he  said,  "  May 
I  say  a  word,  your  worship  ?  " 

Cumberland  Vane  seemed  half  hypnotised  with 
the  silence  and  automatic  movements  of  the 
stranger;  he  made  a  movement  with  his  head, 
which  might  have  been  either  "  yes  "  or  "  no." 
**  I  only  wished  to  say,  your  worship,"  said  Mac- 
lan, putting  back  the  purse  in  his  trouser  pocket, 
**  that  smashing  that  shop  window  was,  I  confess, 
a  useless  and  rather  irregular  business.  It  may 
be  excused,  however,  as  a  mere  preliminary  to 
further  proceedings,  a  sort  of  preface.  Wherever 
and  whenever  I  meet  that  man/'  and  he  pointed 


THE    STIPENDIARY    MAGISTRATE     43 

to  the  editor  of  "  The  Atheist,"  "  whether  it  be 
outside  this  door  in  ten  minutes  from  now,  or 
twenty  years  hence  in  some  distant  countr}%  wher- 
ever and  whenever  I  meet  that  man,  I  will 
fight  him.  Do  not  be  afraid,  I  will  not  rush  at 
him  like  a  bully,  or  bear  him  down  with  any  brute 
superiority.  I  will  fight  him  like  a  gentleman; 
I  will  fight  him  as  our  fathers  fought.  He  shall 
choose  how,  sword  or  pistol,  horse  or  foot.  But 
if  he  refuses,  I  will  write  his  cowardice  on  every 
wall  in  the  world.  If  he  had  said  of  my  mother 
what  he  said  of  the  Mother  of  God,  there  is  not 
a  club  of  clean  men  in  Europe  that  would  deny 
my  right  to  call  him  out.  If  he  had  said  it  of  my 
wife,  you  English  would  yourselves  have  par- 
doned me  for  beating  him  like  a  dog  in  the  market 
place.  Your  worship,  I  have  no  mother;  I  have 
no  wife.  I  have  only  that  which  the  poor  have 
equally  with  the  rich ;  which  the  lonely  have 
equally  with  the  man  of  many  friends.  To  me 
this  whole  strange  world  is  homely,  because  in 
the  heart  of  it  there  is  a  home;  to  me  this  cruel 
world  is  kindly,  because  higher  than  the  heavens 
there  is  something  more  human  than  humanity. 
If  a  man  must  not  fight  for  this,  may  he  fight  for 
anything?    I  would  fight  for  my  friend,  but  if  I 


44      THE    BALL    AND    THE    CROSS 

lost  my  friend,  I  should  still  be  there.  I  would 
fight  for  my  country,  but  if  I  lost  my  country,  I 
should  still  exist.  But  if  what  that  devil  dreams 
were  true,  I  should  not  be — I  should  burst  like  a 
bubble  and  be  gone.  I  could  not  live  in  that 
imbecile  universe.  Shall  I  not  fight  for  my  own 
existence  ?  " 

The  magistrate  recovered  his  voice  and  his 
presence  of  mind.  The  first  part  of  the  speech, 
the  bombastic  and  brutally  practical  challenge, 
stunned  him  with  surprise;  but  the  rest  of  Evan's 
remarks,  branching  off  as  they  did  into  theoretic 
phrases,  gave  his  vague  and  very  English  mind 
(full  of  memories  of  the  hedging  and  compromise 
in  English  public  speaking)  an  indistinct  sensa- 
tion of  relief,  as  if  the  man,  though  mad,  were 
not  so  dangerous  as  he  had  thought.  He  went 
into  a  sort  of  weary  laughter. 

"  For  Heaven's  sake,  man/'  he  said,  "  don't 
talk  so  much.  Let  other  people  have  a  chance 
(laughter).  I  trust  all  that  you  said  about  ask- 
ing Mr.  Turnbull  to  fight,  may  be  regarded  as 
rubbish.  In  case  of  accidents,  however,  I  must 
bind  you  over  to  keep  the  peace." 

"  To  keep  the  peace,"  repeated  Evan,  *'  with 
whom  ?  " 


THE    STIPENDIARY    MAGISTRATE     45 

"  With  Mr.  Turnbull,"  said  Vane. 

"  Certainly  not^"  answered  Maclan.  "  What 
has  he  to  do  with  peace  ?  " 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say,"  began  the  magistrate, 
"  that  you  refuse  to  .  .  ."  The  voice  of  Turn- 
bull  himself  clove  in  for  the  first  time. 

"  Might  I  suggest,"  he  said,  "  that  I,  your  wor- 
ship, can  settle  to  some  extent  this  absurd  matter 
myself.  This  rather  wild  gentleman  promises 
that  he  will  not  attack  me  with  any  ordinary  as- 
sault— and  if  he  does,  you  may  be  sure  the  police 
shall  hear  of  it.  But  he  says  he  will  not.  He 
says  he  will  challenge  me  to  a  duel ;  and  I  cannot 
say  anything  stronger  about  his  mental  state  than 
to  say  that  I  think  that  it  is  highly  probable  that 
he  will.  (Laughter.)  But  it  takes  two  to  make 
a  duel,  your  worship  (renewed  laughter).  I  do 
not  in  the  least  mind  being  described  on  every 
wall  in  the  world  as  the  coward  who  would  not 
fight  a  man  in  Fleet  Street,  about  whether  the 
Virgin  Mary  had  a  parallel  in  Mesopotamian 
mythology.  No,  your  worship.  You  need  not 
trouble  to  bind  him  over  to  keep  the  peace.  I 
bind  myself  over  to  keep  the  peace,  and  you  may 
rest  quite  satisfied  that  there  will  be  no  duel  with 
me  in  it." 


46      THE    BALL    AND    THE    CROSS 

Mr.  Cumberland  Vane  rolled  about,  laughing 
in  a  sort  of  relief. 

"  You're  like  a  breath  of  April  air,  sir,"  he 
cried.  "  You're  ozone  after  that  fellow.  You're 
perfectly  right.  Perhaps  I  have  taken  the  thing 
too  seriously.  I  should  love  to  see  him  sending 
you  challenges  and  to  see  you  smiling.  Well, 
well." 

'"  Evan  went  out  of  the  Court  of  Justice  free, 
but  strangely  shaken,  like  a  sick  man.  Any  pun- 
ishment or  suppression  he  would  have  felt  as  nat- 
ural; but  the  sudden  juncture  between  the  laugh- 
ter of  his  judge  and  the  laughter  of  the  man  he 
had  wronged,  made  him  feel  suddenly  small,  or 
at  least,  defeated.  It  was  really  true  that  the 
whole  modern  world  regarded  his  world  as  a  bub- 
ble. No  cruelty  could  have  shown  it,  but  their 
kindness  showed  it  with  a  ghastly  clearness.  As 
he  was  brooding,  he  suddenly  became  conscious 
of  a  small,  stem  figure,  fronting  him  in  silence. 
Its  eyes  were  grey  and  awful,  and  its  beard  red. 
It  was  Turnbull. 

"  Well,  sir,"  said  the  editor  of  "  The  Atheist," 
"  where  is  the  fight  to  be  ?  Name  the  field, 
sir." 

Evan  stood  thunderstruck.    He  stammered  out 


THE    STIPENDIARY    MAGISTRATE      47 

something,  he  knew  not  what ;  he  only  guessed  it 
by  the  answer  of  the  other. 

"  Do  I  want  to  fight  ?  Do  I  want  to  fight  ?  " 
cried  the  furious  Free-thinker.  "  Why,  you 
moonstruck  scarecrow  of  superstition,  do  you 
think  your  dirty  saints  are  the  only  people  who 
can  die?  Haven't  you  hung  atheists,  and  burned 
them,  and  boiled  them,  and  did  they  ever  deny 
their  faith  ?  Do  you  think  we  don't  want  to  fight  ? 
Night  and  day  I  have  prayed — I  have  longed — 
for  an  atheist  revolution — I  have  longed  to  see 
your  blood  and  ours  in  the  streets.  Let  it  be  yours 
or  mine?  " 

"  But  you  said  ..."  began  Maclan. 

"  I  know,"  said  Turnbull,  scornfully.  "  And 
what  did  you  say?  You  damned  fool,  you  said 
things  that  might  have  got  us  locked  up  for  a 
year,  and  shadowed  by  the  coppers  for  half  a 
decade.  If  you  wanted  to  fight,  why  did  you  tell 
that  ass  you  wanted  to?  I  got  you  out,  to  fight 
if  you  want  to.     Now,  fight  if  you  dare." 

"  I  swear  to  you,  then,"  said  Maclan,  after  a 
pause.  "  I  swear  to  you  that  nothing  shall  come 
between  us.  I  swear  to  you  that  nothing  shall  be 
in  my  heart  or  in  my  head  till  our  swords  clash 
together.    I  swear  it  by  the  God  you  have  denied, 


48      THE    BALL    AND    THE    CROSS 

by  the  Blessed  Lady  you  have  blasphemed;  I 
swear  it  by  the  seven  swords  in  her  heart.  I 
swear  it  by  the  Holy  Island  where  my  fathers  are, 
by  the  honour  of  my  mother,  by  the  secret  of  my 
people,  and  by  the  chalice  of  the  Blood  of  God." 
The  atheist  drew  up  his  head.  "  And  I,"  he 
said,  **  give  my  word." 


CHAPTER  III 

SOME   OLD    CURIOSITIES 

The  evening  sky,  a  dome  of  solid  gold,  un- 
flaked  even  by  a  single  sunset  cloud,  steeped  the 
meanest  sights  of  London  in  a  strange  and  mel- 
low light.  It  made  a  little  greasy  street  off  St. 
Martin's  Lane  look  as  if  it  were  paved  with  gold. 
It  made  the  pawnbroker's  half-way  down  it  shine 
as  if  it  were  really  that  Mountain  of  Piety  that 
the  French  poetic  instinct  has  named  it;  it  made 
the  mean  pseudo-French  bookshop,  next  but  one 
to  it,  a  shop  packed  with  dreary  indecency,  show 
for  a  moment  a  kind  of  Parisian  colour.  And 
the  shop  that  stood  between  the  pawnshop  and 
the  shop  of  dreary  indecency,  showed  with  quite 
a  blaze  of  old  world  beauty,  for  it  was,  by  acci- 
dent, a  shop  not  unbeautiful  in  itself.  The  front 
window  had  a  glimmer  of  bronze  and  blue  steel, 
lit,  as  by  a  few  stars,  by  the  sparks  of  what  were 
alleged  to  be  jewels;  for  it  was  in  brief,  a  shop 
of   bric-a-brac   and   old   curiosities.      A   row    of 

49 


50      THE    BALL   AND    THE    CROSS 

half  burnished  seventeenth  century  swords  ran 
like  an  ornate  railing  along  the  front  of  the  win- 
dow ;  behind  was  a  darker  glimmer  of  old  oak  and 
old  armour;  and  higher  up  hung  the  most  ex- 
traordinary looking  South  Sea  tools  or  utensils, 
whether  designed  for  killing  enemies  or  merely 
for  cooking  them,  no  mere  white  man  could  pos- 
sibly conjecture.  But  the  romance  of  the  eye, 
which  really  on  this  rich  evening,  clung  about  the 
shop,  had  its  main  source  in  the  accident  of  two 
doors  standing  open,  the  front  door  that  opened 
on  the  street  and  a  back  door  that  opened  on  an 
odd  green  square  of  garden,  that  the  sun  turned 
to  a  square  of  gold.  There  is  nothing  more  beau- 
tiful than  thus  to  look  as  it  were  through  the 
archway  of  a  house;  as  if  the  open  sky  were  an 
interior  chamber,  and  the  sun  a  secret  lamp  of  the 
place. 

I  have  suggested  that  the  sunset  light  made 
everything  lovely.  To  say  that  it  made  the 
keeper  of  the  curiosity  shop  lovely  would  be  a 
tribute  to  it  perhaps  too  extreme.  It  would  easily 
have  made  him  beautiful  if  he  had  been  merely 
squalid ;  if  he  had  been  a  Jew  of  the  Fagin  type. 
But  he  was  a  Jew  of  another  and  much  less  ad- 
mirable type;  a  Jew  with  a  very  well  sounding 


SOME    OLD    CURIOSITIES  51 

name.  For  though  there  are  no  hard  tests  for 
separating  the  tares  and  wheat  of  any  people ;  one 
rude  but  efficient  guide  is  that  the  nice  Jew  is 
called  Moses  Solomon,  and  the  nasty  Jew  is  called 
Thornton  Percy.  The  keeper  of  the  curiosity 
shop  was  of  the  Thornton  Percy  branch  of  the 
chosen  people;  he  belonged  to  those  Lost  Ten 
Tribes  whose  industrious  object  is  to  lose  them- 
selves. He  was  a  man  still  young,  but  already 
corpulent,  with  sleek  dark  hair,  heavy  handsome 
clothes,  and  a  full,  fat,  permanent  smile,  which 
looked  at  the  first  glance  kindly,  and  at  the  second 
cowardly.  The  name  over  his  shop  was  Henry 
Gordon,  but  two  Scotchmen  who  were  in  his  shop 
that  evening  could  come  upon  no  trace  of  a  Scotch 
accent. 

These  two  Scotchmen  in  this  shop  were  care- 
ful purchasers,  but  free-handed  payers.  One  of 
them  who  seemed  to  be  the  principal  and  the  au- 
thority (whom,  indeed,  Mr.  Henry  Gordon  fan- 
cied he  had  seen  somewhere  before),  was  a  small, 
sturdy  fellow,  with  fine  grey  eyes,  a  square  red 
tie  and  a  square  red  beard,  that  he  carried  ag- 
gressively forward  as  if  he  defied  any  one  to  pull 
it.  The  other  kept  so  much  in  the  background 
in  comparison  that  he  looked  almost  ghostly  in 


52      THE    BALL    AND    THE    CROSS 

his  grey  cloak  or  plaid,  a  tall,  sallow,  silent  young 
man. 

The  two  Scotchmen  were  interested  in  seven- 
teenth century  swords.  They  were  fastidious 
about  them.  They  had  a  whole  armoury  of  these 
weapons  brought  out  and  rolled  clattering  about 
the  counter,  until  they  found  two  of  precisely  the 
same  length.  Presumably  they  desired  the  exact 
symmetry  for  some  decorative  trophy.  Even 
then  they  felt  the  points,  poised  the  swords  for 
balance  and  bent  them  in  a  circle  to  see  that  they 
sprang  straight  again ;  which,  for  decorative  pur- 
poses, seems  carrying  realism  rather  far, 

"  These  will  do,"  said  the  strange  person  with 
the  red  beard.  "  And  perhaps  I  had  better  pay 
for  them  at  once.  And  as  you  are  the  challenger, 
Mr.  Maclan,  perhaps  you  had  better  explain  the 
situation." 

The  tall  Scotchman  in  grey  took  a  step  for- 
ward and  spoke  in  a  voice  quite  clear  and  bold, 
and  yet  somehow  lifeless,  like  a  man  going 
through  an  ancient  formality. 

"  The  fact  is,  Mr.  Gordon,  we  have  to  place  our 
honour  in  your  hands.  Words  have  passed  be- 
tween Mr.  Turnbull  and  myself  on  a  grave  and 
invaluable  matter,  which  can  only  be  atoned  for 


SOME    OLD    CURIOSITIES  53 

by  fighting.  Unfortunately,  as  the  poHce  are  in 
some  sense  pursuing  us,  we  are  hurried,  and  must 
fight  now  and  without  seconds.  But  if  you  will 
be  so  kind  as  to  take  us  into  your  little  garden 
and  see  fair  play,  we  shall  feel  how " 

The  shopman  recovered  himself  from  a  stun- 
ning surprise  and  burst  out : 

"  Gentlemen,  are  you  drunk  ?  A  duel !  A  duel 
in  my  garden.  Go  home,  gentlemen,  go  home. 
Why,  what  did  you  quarrel  about  ?  " 

"  We  quarrelled,"  said  Evan,  in  the  same  dead 
voice,  "  about  religion."  The  fat  shopkeeper 
rolled  about  in  his  chair  with  enjoyment. 

"  Well,  this  is  a  funny  game,"  he  said.  "  So 
you  want  to  commit  murder  on  behalf  of  religion. 
Well,  well  my  religion  is  a  little  respect  for 
humanity,  and " 

"  Excuse  me,"  cut  in  Turnbull,  suddenly  and 
fiercely,  pointing  towards  the  pawnbroker's  next 
door.     "Don't  you  own  that  shop?" 

"  Why — er — yes,"  said  Gordon. 

"  And  don't  you  own  that  shop?  "  repeated  the 
secularist,  pointing  backward  to  the  pornographic 
bookseller. 

"What  if  I  do?" 

"  Why,   then,"    cried    Turnbull,   with   grating 


54      THE    BALL    AND    THE    CROSS 

contempt.  "  I  will  leave  the  religion  of  human- 
ity confidently  in  your  hands;  but  I  am  sorry  I 
troubled  you  about  such  a  thing  as  honour.  Look 
here,  my  man.  I  do  believe  in  humanity.  I  do 
believe  in  liberty.  My  father  died  for  it  under 
the  swords  of  the  Yeomanry.  I  am  going  to  die 
for  it,  if  need  be^,  under  that  sword  on  your 
counter.  But  if  there  is  one  sight  that  makes  me 
doubt  it  it  is  your  foul  fat  face.  It  is  hard  to 
believe  you  were  not  meant  to  be  ruled  like  a 
dog  or  killed  like  a  cockroach.  Don't  try  your 
slave's  philosophy  on  me.  We  are  going  to 
fight,  and  we  are  going  to  fight  in  your  garden, 
with  your  swords.  Be  still!  Raise  your  voice 
above  a  whisper,  and  I  run  you  through  the 
body." 

Turnbull  put  the  bright  point  of  the  sword 
against  the  gay  waistcoat  of  the  dealer,  who  stood 
choking  with  rage  and  fear,  and  an  astonishment 
so  crushing  as  to  be  greater  than  either. 

"  Maclan,"  said  Turnbull,  falling  almost  into 
the  familiar  tone  of  a  business  partner,  "  ^Maclan, 
tie  up  this  fellow  and  put  a  gag  in  his  mouth.  Be 
still,  I  say,  or  I  kill  you  where  you  stand." 

The  man  was  too  frightened  to  scream,  but 
he  struggled  wildly,  while  Evan  Maclan,  whose 


SOME    OLD    CURIOSITIES  55 

long,  lean  hands  were  unusually  powerful,  tight- 
ened some  old  curtain  cords  round  him,  strapped 
a  rope  gag  in  his  mouth  and  rolled  him  on  his 
back  on  the  floor. 

"  There's  nothing  very  strong  here,"  said 
Evan,  looking  about  him.  "  I'm  afraid  he'll  work 
through  that  gag  in  half  an  hour  or  so." 

"  Yes,"  said  Turnbull,  "  but  one  of  us  will  be 
killed  by  that  time." 

"  Well,  let's  hope  so,"  said  the  Highlander, 
glancing  doubtfully  at  the  squirming  thing  on  the 
floor. 

"  And  now,"  said  Turnbull,  twirling  his  fiery 
moustache  and  fingering  his  sword,  "  let  us  go 
into  the  garden.  What  an  exquisite  summer 
evening !  " 

Maclan  said  nothing,  but  lifting  his  sword 
from  the  counter  went  out  into  the  sun. 

The  brilliant  light  ran  along  the  blades,  filling 
the  channels  of  them  with  white  fire;  the  com- 
batants stuck  their  swords  in  the  turf  and  took 
ofif  their  hats^  coats,  waistcoats,  and  boots.  Evan 
said  a  short  Latin  prayer  to  himself,  during  which 
Turnbull  made  something  of  a  parade  of  lighting 
a  cigarette  which  he  flung  away  the  instant  after, 
when  he  saw  Maclan  apparently  standing  ready. 


56      THE    BALL    AND    THE    CROSS 

Yet  Maclan  was  not  exactly  ready.  He  stood 
staring  like  a  man  stricken  with  a  trance. 

"What  are  you  staring  at?"  asked  Turnbull, 
"  Do  you  see  the  bobbies  ?  " 

"  I  see  Jerusalem/'  said  Evan,  "  all  covered 
with  the  shields  and  standards  of  the  Saracens." 

"  Jerusalem ! "  said  Turnbull,  laughing. 
*'  Well,  we've  taken  the  only  inhabitant  into 
captivity." 

And  he  picked  up  his  sword  and  made  it 
whistle  like  a  boy's  wand. 

*' I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Maclan,  drily. 
"  Let  us  begin." 

Maclan  made  a  military  salute  with  his 
weapon,  which  Turnbull  copied  or  parodied  with 
an  impatient  contempt ;  and  in  the  stillness  of  the 
garden  the  swords  came  together  with  a  clear 
sound  like  a  bell.  The  instant  the  blades  touched, 
each  felt  them  tingle  to  their  very  points  with  a 
personal  vitality,  as  if  they  were  two  naked  nerves 
of  steel.  Evan  had  worn  throughout  an  air  of 
apathy,  which  might  have  been  the  stale  apathy 
of  one  Avho  wants  nothing.  But  it  was  indeed  the 
more  dreadful  apathy  of  one  who  wants  some- 
thing and  will  care  for  nothing  else.  And  this 
was  seen  suddenly ;  for  the  instant  Evan  engaged 


SOME    OLD    CURIOSITIES  57 

he  disengaged  and  lunged  with  an  infernal  vio- 
lence. His  opponent  with  a  desperate  prompti- 
tude parried  and  riposted;  the  parry  only  just 
succeeded,  the  riposte  failed.  Something  big  and 
unbearable  seemed  to  have  broken  finally  out  of 
Evan  in  that  first  murderous  lunge,  leaving  him 
lighter  and  cooler  and  quicker  upon  his  feet.  He 
fell  to  again,  fiercely  still,  but  now  with  a  fierce 
caution.  The  next  moment  Turnbull  lunged; 
Maclan  seemed  to  catch  the  point  and  throw  it 
away  from  him,  and  was  thrusting  back  like  a 
thunderbolt,  when  a  sound  paralysed  him;  an- 
other sound  beside  their  ringing  weapons.  Turn- 
bull,  perhaps  from  an  equal  astonishment,  per- 
haps from  chivalry,  stopped  also  and  forbore  to 
send  his  sword  through  his  exposed  enemy. 

"  What's  that?  "  asked  Evan,  hoarsely. 

A  heavy  scraping  sound,  as  of  a  trunk  being 
dragged  along  a  littered  floor,  came  from  the  dark 
shop  behind  them. 

"  The  old  Jew  has  broken  one  of  his  strings, 
and  he's  crawling  about,"  said  Turnbull.  "  Be 
quick!  We  must  finish  before  he  gets  his  gag 
out." 

"  Yes,  yes,  quick !  On  guard !  "  cried  the 
Highlander.     The  blades  crossed  again  with  the 


58      THE    BALL   AND    THE    CROSS 

same  sound  like  song,  and  the  men  went  to  work 
again  with  the  same  white  and  watchful  faces. 
Evan,  in  his  impatience,  went  back  a  little  to  his 
wildness.  He  made  windmills,  as  the  French 
duellists  say,  and  though  he  was  probably  a  shade 
the  better  fencer  of  the  two,  he  found  the  other's 
point  pass  his  face  twice  so  close  as  almost  to 
graze  his  cheek.  The  second  time  he  realised  the 
actual  possibility  of  defeat  and  pulled  himself  to- 
gether under  a  shock  of  the  sanity  of  anger.  He 
narrowed,  and,  so  to  speak,  tightened  his  opera- 
tions:  he  fenced  (as  the  swordman's  boast  goes), 
in  a  wedding  ring;  he  turned  Turnbull's  thrusts 
with  a  maddening  and  almost  mechanical  click, 
like  that  of  a  machine.  Whenever  Turnbull's 
sword  sought  to  go  over  that  other  mere  white 
streak  it  seemed  to  be  caught  in  a  complex  net- 
work of  steel.  He  turned  one  thrust,  turned  an- 
other, turned  another.  Then  suddenly  he  went 
forward  at  the  lunge  with  his  whole  living 
weight.  Turnbull  leaped  back,  but  Evan  lunged 
and  lunged  and  lunged  again  like  a  devilish  piston 
rod  or  battering  ram.  And  high  above  all  the 
sound  of  the  struggle  there  broke  into  the  silent 
evening  a  bellowing  human  voice,  nasal,  raucous, 
at  the  highest  pitch  of  pain.     "Help!     Help! 


SOME    OLD    CURIOSITIES  59 

Police !    Murder !    Murder !  "    The  gag  was  bro- 
ken ;  and  the  tongue  of  terror  was  loose. 

"  Keep  on !  "  gasped  Turnbull.  "  One  may  be 
killed  before  they  come." 

The  voice  of  the  screaming  shopkeeper  was  loud 
enough  to  drown  not  only  the  noise  of  the  swords 
but  all  other  noises  around  it,  but  even  through 
its  rending  din  there  seemed  to  be  some  other  stir 
or  scurry.  And  Evan,  in  the  very  act  of  thrusting 
at  Turnbull,  saw  something  in  his  eyes  that  made 
him  drop  his  sword.  The  atheist,  with  his  grey 
eyes  at  their  widest  and  wildest,  was  staring 
straight  over  his  shoulder  at  the  little  archway  of 
shop  that  opened  on  the  street  beyond.  And  he 
saw  the  archway  blocked  and  blackened  with 
strange  figures. 

"  We  must  bolt,  Maclan,"  he  said  abruptly. 
"  And  there  isn't  a  damned  second  to  lose  either. 
Do  as  I  do." 

With  a  bound  he  was  beside  the  little  cluster  of 
his  clothes  and  boots  that  lay  on  the  lawn;  he 
snatched  them  up,  without  waiting  to  put  any  of 
them  on ;  and  tucking  his  sword  under  his  other 
arm,  went  wildly  at  the  wall  at  the  bottom  of  the 
garden  and  swung  himself  over  it.  Three  sec- 
onds after  he  had  alighted  in  his  socks  on  the 


6o      THE    BALL   AND    THE    CROSS 

other  side,  Maclan  alighted  beside  him,  also  in 
his  socks  and  also  carrying  clothes  and  sword  in 
a  desperate  bundle. 

They  were  in  a  by-street,  very  lean  and 
lonely  itself,  but  so  close  to  a  crowded  thorough- 
fare that  they  could  see  the  vague  masses  of  vehi- 
cles going  by,  and  could  even  see  an  individual 
hansom  cab  passing  the  corner  at  the  instant. 
Turnbull  put  his  fingers  to  his  mouth  like  a  gut- 
ter-snipe and  whistled  twice.  Even  as  he  did  so 
he  could  hear  the  loud  voices  of  the  neighbours 
and  the  police  coming  down  the  garden. 

The  hansom  swung  sharply  and  came  tearing 
down  the  little  lane  at  his  call.  When  the  cabman 
saw  his  fares,  howevjer,  two  wild-haired  men  in 
their  shirts  and  socks  with  naked  swords  under 
their  arms,  he  not  unnaturally  brought  his  readi- 
ness to  a  rigid  stop  and  stared  suspiciously. 

"  You  talk  to  him  a  minute,"  whispered  Turn- 
bull,  and  stepped  back  into  the  shadow  of  the 
wall. 

"  We  want  you,"  said  Maclan  to  the  cabman, 
with  a  superb  Scotch  drawl  of  indifference  and 
assurance,  "  to  drive  us  to  St.  Pancras  Station — 
verra  quick." 

"  Very  sorry,  sir,"  said  the  cabman,  "  but  I*d 


SOME    OLD    CURIOSITIES  6i 

like  to  know  it  was  all  right.  Might  I  arst  where 
you  come  from,  Sir  ?  " 

A  second  after  he  spoke  Maclan  heard  a  heavy 
voice  on  the  other  side  of  the  wall,  saying :  "  I 
suppose  I'd  better  get  over  and  look  for  them. 
Give  me  a  back." 

"  Cabby,"  said  Maclan,  again  assuming  the 
most  deliberate  and  lingering  lowland  Scotch  in- 
tonation, "  if  ye're  really  verra  anxious  to  ken 
whar  a'  come  fra'^  I'll  tell  ye  as  a  verra  great 
secret.  A'  come  from  Scotland.  And  a'm 
gaein'  to  St.  Pancras  Station.  Open  the  doors, 
cabby." 

The  cabman  stared,  but  laughed.  The  heavy 
voice  behind  the  wall  said :  "  Now  then,  a  better 
back  this  time,  Mr.  Price."  And  from  the  shadow 
of  the  wall  Turnbull  crept  out.  He  had  struggled 
wildly  into  his  coat  (leaving  his  waistcoat  on  the 
pavement)  and  he  was  with  a  fierce  pale  face 
climbing  up  the  cab  behind  the  cabman.  Maclan 
had  no  glimmering  notion  of  what  he  was  up  to, 
but  an  instinct  of  discipline,  inherited  from  a  hun- 
dred men  of  war,  made  him  stick  to  his  own  part 
and  trust  the  other  man's. 

"  Open  the  doors,  cabby,"  he  repeated,  with 
something  of  the  obstinate  solemnity  of  a  drunk- 


62      THE    BALL    AND    THE    CROSS 

ard,  "  open  the  doors.  Did  ye  no  hear  me  say  St. 
Pancras  Station  ?  " 

The  top  of  a  policeman's  helmet  appeared  above 
the  garden  wall.  The  cabman  did  not  see  it,  but 
he  was  still  suspicious  and  began : 

"  Very  sorry,  sir,  but  ..."  and  with  that  the 
catlike  Tumbull  tore  him  out  of  his  seat  and 
hurled  him  into  the  street  below,  where  he  lay 
suddenly  stunned. 

"  Give  me  his  hat,"  said  Turnbull  in  a  silver 
voice,  that  the  other  obeyed  like  a  bugle.  "  And 
get  inside  with  the  swords." 

And  just  as  the  red  and  raging  face  of  a  police- 
man appeared  above  the  wall,  Turnbull  struck  the 
horse  with  a  terrible  cut  of  the  whip  and  the  two 
went  whirling  away  like  a  boomerang. 

They  had  spun  through  seven  streets  and  three 
or  four  squares  before  anything  further  happened. 
Then,  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Maida  Vale,  the 
driver  opened  the  trap  and  talked  through  it  in 
a  manner  not  wholly  common  in  conversations 
through  that  aperture. 

"  Mr.  Maclan,"  he  said  shortly  and  civilly. 

"  Mr.  Turnbull,"  replied  his  motionless  fare. 

"  Under  circumstances  such  as  those  in  which 
we  were  both  recently  placed  there  was  no  time 


SOME    OLD    CURIOSITIES  63 

for  anything  but  very  abrupt  action.  I  trust 
therefore  that  you  have  no  cause  to  complain  of 
me  if  I  have  deferred  until  this  moment  a  consul- 
tation with  you  on  our  present  position  or  future 
action.  Our  present  position,  Mr.  Maclan,  I  im- 
agine that  I  am  under  no  special  necessity  of  de- 
scribing. We  have  broken  the  law  and  we  are 
fleeing  from  its  officers.  Our  future  action  is  a 
thing  about  which  I  myself  entertain  sufficiently 
strong  views;  but  I  have  no  right  to  assume  or 
to  anticipate  yours,  though  I  may  have  formed  a 
decided  conception  of  your  character  and  a  de- 
cided notion  of  what  they  will  probably  be.  Still, 
by  every  principle  of  intellectual  justice,  I  am 
bound  to  ask  you  now  and  seriously  whether  you 
wish  to  continue  our  interrupted  relations." 

Maclan  leant  his  white  and  rather  weary  face 
back  upon  the  cushions  in  order  to  speak  up 
through  the  open  door. 

"  Mr.  Turnbull,"  he  said,  "  I  have  nothing  to 
add  to  what  I  have  said  before.  It  is  strongly 
borne  in  upon  me  that  you  and  I,  the  sole  occu- 
pants of  this  runaway  cab,  are  at  this  moment 
the  two  most  important  people  in  London,  pos- 
sibly in  Europe.  I  have  been  looking  at  all  the 
streets  as  we  went  past,  I  have  been  looking  at  all 


64      THE    BALL    AND    THE    CROSS 

the  shops  as  we  went  past,  I  have  been  looking  at 
all  the  churches  as  we  went  past.  At  first,  I  felt 
a  little  dazed  with  the  vastness  of  it  all.  I  could 
not  understand  what  it  all  meant.  But  now  I 
know  exactly  what  it  all  means.  It  means  us. 
This  whole  civilisation  is  only  a  dream.  You  and 
I  are  the  realities." 

"  Religious  symbolism,"  said  Mr.  Turnbull, 
through  the  trap,  "  does  not,  as  you  are  probably 
aware,  appeal  ordinarily  to  thinkers  of  the  school 
to  which  I  belong.  But  in  symbolism  as  you  use 
it  in  this  instance,  I  must,  I  think,  concede  a  cer- 
tain truth.  We  must  fight  this  thing  out  some- 
where; because,  as  you  truly  say,  we  have  found 
each  other's  reality.  We  must  kill  each  other — 
or  convert  each  other.  I  used  to  think  all  Chris- 
tians were  hypocrites,  and  I  felt  quite  mildly  to- 
wards them  really.  But  I  know  you  are  sincere — 
and  my  soul  is  mad  against  you.  In  the  same 
way  you  used,  I  suppose,  to  think  that  all  atheists 
thought  atheism  would  leave  them  free  for  im- 
morality— and  yet  in  your  heart  you  tolerated 
them  entirely.  Now  you  know  that  I  am  an  hon- 
est man,  and  you  are  mad  against  me,  as  I  am 
against  you.  Yes,  that's  it,  You  can't  be  angry 
with  bad  men.    But  a  good  man  in  the  wrong — 


SOME    OLD    CURIOSITIES  65 

why  one  thirsts  for  his  blood.  Yes,  you  open  for 
me  a  vista  of  thought." 

"  Don't  run  into  anything,"  said  Evan,  im- 
movably. 

"  There's  something  in  that  view  of  yours, 
too,"  said  Tiirnbull,  and  shut  down  the  trap. 

They  sped  on  through  shining  streets  that  shot 
by  them  like  arrows.  Mr.  Turnbull  had  evidently 
a  great  deal  of  unused  practical  talent  which 
was  unrolling  itself  in  this  ridiculous  adventure. 
They  had  got  away  with  such  stunning  prompti- 
tude that  the  police  chase  had  in  all  probability 
not  even  properly  begun.  But  in  case  it  had,  the 
amateur  cabman  chose  his  dizzy  course  through 
London  with  a  strange  dexterity.  He  aid  not  do 
what  would  have  first  occurred  to  any  ordinary 
outsider  desiring  to  destroy  his  tracks.  He  did 
not  cut  into  by-ways  or  twist  his  way  through 
mean  streets.  His  amateur  common  sense  told 
him  that  it  was  precisely  the  poor  street,  the  side 
street,  that  would  be  likely  to  remember  and  re- 
port the  passing  of  a  hansom  cab,  like  the  passing 
of  a  royal  procession.  He  kept  chiefly  to  the  great 
roads,  so  full  of  hansoms  that  a  wilder  pair  than 
they  might  easily  have  passed  in  the  press.  In 
one  of  the  quieter  streets  Evan  put  on  his  boots. 


66      THE    BALL    AND    THE    CROSS 

Towards  the  top  of  Albany  Street  the  singular 
cabman  again  opened  the  trap. 

"  Mr.  Maclan,"  he  said,  "  I  understand  that  we 
have  now  definitely  settled  that  in  the  conven- 
tional language  honour  is  not  satisfied.  Our  ac- 
tion must  at  least  go  further  than  it  has  gone 
under  recent  interrupted  conditions.  That,  I 
believe,  is  understood." 

"  Perfectly,"  replied  the  other  with  his  bootlace 
in  his  teeth. 

"  Under  those  conditions,"  continued  Turnbull, 
his  voice  coming  through  the  hole  with  a  slight 
note  of  trepidation  very  unusual  with  him,  "  I 
have  a  suggestion  to  make,  if  that  can  be  called 
a  suggestion,  which  has  probably  occurred  to  you 
as  readily  as  to  me.  Until  the  actual  event  comes 
off  we  are  practically  in  the  position  if  not  of 
comrades,  at  least  of  business  partners.  Lentil  the 
event  comes  off,  therefore,  I  should  suggest  that 
quarrelling  would  be  inconvenient  and  rather  in- 
artistic ;  while  the  ordinary  exchange  of  politeness 
between  man  and  man  would  be  not  only  elegant 
but  uncommonly  practical." 

"  You  are  perfectly  right,"  answered  Maclan, 
with  his  melancholy  voice,  "  in  saying  that  all 
this  has  occurred  to  me.    All  duellists  should  be- 


SOME    OLD    CURIOSITIES  67 

have  like  gentlemen  to  each  other.  But  we,  by 
the  queerness  of  our  position,  are  something  much 
more  than  either  duellists  or  gentlemen.  We  are, 
in  the  oddest  and  most  exact  sense  of  the  term, 
brothers — in  arms." 

"  Mr.  Maclan,"  replied  Turnbull,  calmly,  "  no 
more  need  be  said."  And  he  closed  the  trap  once 
more. 

They  had  reached  Finchley  Road  before  he 
opened  it  again. 

Then  he  said_,  "  Mr.  Maclan,  may  I  offer  you 
a  cigar.    It  will  be  a  touch  of  realism." 

"  Thank  you,"  answered  Evan — "  You  are 
very  kind."    And  he  began  to  smoke  in  the  cab. 


CHAPTER  IV 

A   DISCUSSION    AT   DAWN 

The  duellists  had  from  their  own  point  of 
view  escaped  or  conquered  the  chief  powers  of  the 
modem  world.  They  had  satisfied  the  magistrate, 
they  had  tied  the  tradesman  neck  and  heels,  and 
they  had  left  the  police  behind.  As  far  as  their 
own  feelings  went  they  had  melted  into  a  mon- 
strous sea;  they  were  but  the  fare  and  driver 
of  one  of  the  million  hansoms  that  fill  London 
streets.  But  they  had  forgotten  something;  they 
had  forgotten  journalism.  They  had  forgotten 
that  there  exists  in  the  modern  world,  perhaps  for 
the  first  time  in  history,  a  class  of  people  whose 
interest  is  not  that  things  should  happen  well  or 
happen  badly,  should  happen  successfully  or  hap- 
pen unsuccessfully,  should  happen  to  the  advan- 
tage of  this  party  or  the  advantage  of  that  party, 
but  whose  interest  simply  is  that  things  should 
happen. 

It  is  the  one  great  weakness  of  journalism  as 
68 


A   DISCUSSION    AT   DAWN         69 

a  picture  of  our  modern  existence,  that  it  must 
be  a  picture  made  up  entirely  of  exceptions.  We 
announce  on  flaring  posters  that  a  man  has  fallen 
off  a  scaffolding.  We  do  not  announce  on  flaring 
posters  that  a  man  has  not  fallen  off  a  scaffold- 
ing. Yet  this  latter  fact  is  fundamentally  more 
exciting,  as  indicating  that  that  moving  tower  of 
terror  and  mystery,  a  man,  is  still  abroad  upon 
the  earth.  That  the  man  has  not  fallen  off  a 
scaffolding  is  really  more  sensational;  and  it  is 
also  some  thousand  times  more  common.  But 
journalism  cannot  reasonably  be  expected  thus  to 
insist  upon  the  permanent  miracles.  Busy  editors 
cannot  be  expected  to  put  on  their  posters,  "  Mr. 
Wilkinson  Still  Safe,"  or  "  Mr.  Jones,  of  Worth- 
ing, Not  Dead  Yet."  They  cannot  announce 
the  happiness  of  mankind  at  all.  They  cannot 
describe  all  the  forks  that  are  not  stolen,  or  all 
the  marriages  that  are  not  judiciously  dissolved. 
Hence  the  complete  picture  they  give  of  life  is  of 
necessity  fallacious ;  they  can  only  represent  what 
is  unusual.  However  democratic  they  may  be, 
they  are  only  concerned  with  the  minority. 

The  incident  of  the  religious  fanatic  who  broke 
a  window  on  Ludgate  Hill  was  alone  enough  to 
set  them  up  in  good  copy  for  the  night.     But 


70      THE    BALL    AND    THE    CROSS 

when  the  same  man  was  brought  before  a  magis- 
trate and  defied  his  enemy  to  mortal  combat  in  the 
open  court,  then  the  columns  would  hardly  hold 
the  excruciating  information,  and  the  headlines 
were  so  large  that  there  was  hardly  room  for  any 
of  the  text.  The  *'  Daily  Telegraph  "  headed  a 
column,  "  A  Duel  on  Divinity,"  and  there  was 
a  correspondence  afterwards  which  lasted  for 
months,  about  whether  police  magistrates  ought 
to  mention  religion.  The  "  Daily  Mail,"  in  its 
dull,  sensible  way,  headed  the  events,  "  Wanted 
to  fight  for  the  Virgin,"  Mr.  James  Douglas,  in 
"  The  Star,"  presuming  on  his  knowledge  of 
philosophical  and  theological  terms,  described  the 
Christian's  outbreak  under  the  title  of  "  Dualist 
and  Duellist."  The  "  Daily  News  "  inserted  a 
colourless  account  of  the  matter,  but  was  pur- 
sued and  eaten  up  for  some  weeks,  with  letters 
from  outlying  ministers,  headed  "  Murder  and 
Mariolatry."  But  the  journalistic  temperature 
was  steadily  and  consistently  heated  by  all  these 
influences;  the  journalists  had  tasted  blood,  pro- 
spectively, and  were  in  the  mood  for  more; 
everything  in  the  matter  prepared  them  for  fur- 
ther outbursts  of  moral  indignation.  And  when 
a  gasping  reporter  rushed  in  in  the  last  hours  of 


A    DISCUSSION    AT    DAWN         71 

the  evening  with  the  announcement  that  the  two 
heroes  of  the  Police  Court  had  Hterally  been  found 
fig-hting  in  a  London  back  garden,  with  a  shop- 
keeper bound  and  gagged  in  the  front  of  the 
house,  the  editors  and  sub-editors  were  stricken 
still  as  men  are  by  great  beatitudes. 

The  next  morning,  five  or  six  of  the  great  Lon- 
don dailies  burst  out  simultaneously  into  great 
blossoms  of  eloquent  leader-writing.  Towards 
the  end  all  the  leaders  tended  to  be  the  same,  but 
they  all  began  differently.  The  "  Daily  Tele- 
graph," for  instance  began,  "  There  will  be  little 
difference  among  our  readers  or  among  all  truly 
English  and  law-abiding  men  touching  the  etc., 
etc."  The  "  Daily  Mail  "  said,  "  People  must 
learn,  in  the  modern  world,  to  keep  their  theologi- 
cal differences  to  themselves.  The  fracas,  etc., 
etc."  The  "Daily  News"  started,  "Nothing 
could  be  more  inimical  to  the  cause  of  true  re- 
ligion than  etc.,  etc."  The  "  Times  "  began  with 
something  about  Celtic  disturbances  of  the  equi- 
librium of  Empire,  and  the  "  Daily  Express  " 
distinguished  itself  splendidly  by  omitting  alto- 
gether so  controversial  a  matter  and  substituting 
a  leader  about  goloshes. 

And  the  morning  after  that,  the  editors  and 


72      THE    BALL    AND    THE    CROSS 

the  newspapers  were  in  such  a  state,  that,  as  the 
phrase  is,  there  was  no  holding  them.  Whatever 
secret  and  elvish  thing  it  is  that  broods  over  edi- 
tors and  suddenly  turns  their  brains,  that  thing 
had  seized  on  the  story  of  the  broken  glass  and 
the  duel  in  the  garden.  It  became  monstrous  and 
omnipresent,  as  do  in  our  time  the  unimportant 
doings  of  the  sect  of  the  Agapemonites,  or  as  did 
at  an  earlier  time  the  dreary  dishonesties  of  the 
Rhodesian  financiers.  Questions  were  asked  about 
it,  and  even  answered,  in  the  House  of  Commons. 
The  Government  was  solemnly  denounced  in  the 
papers  for  not  having  done  something,  nobody 
knew  what,  to  prevent  the  window  being  broken. 
An  enormous  subscription  was  started  to  reim- 
burse Mr.  Gordon^  the  man  who  had  been  gagged 
in  the  shop.  Mr.  Maclan,  one  of  the  combatants, 
became  for  some  mysterious  reason,  singly  and 
hugely  popular  as  a  comic  figure  in  the  comic 
papers  and  on  the  stage  of  the  music  halls.  He 
was  always  represented  (in  defiance  of  fact),  with 
red  whiskers,  and  a  very  red  nose,  and  in  full 
Highland  costume.  And  a  song,  consisting  of  an 
unimaginable  number  of  verses,  in  which  his  name 
was  rhymed  with  flat  iron,  the  British  Lion,  sly 
'un,  dandelion,  Spion  (with  Kop  in  the  next  line), 


A    DISCUSSION    AT    DAWN  73 

was  sung  to  crowded  houses  every  night.  The 
papers  developed  a  devouring  thirst  for  the  cap- 
ture of  the  fugitives;  and  when  they  had  not 
been  caught  for  forty-eight  hours,  they  suddenly 
turned  the  whole  matter  into  a  detective  mystery. 
Letters  under  the  heading,  *'  Where  are  They," 
poured  in  to  every  paper,  with  every  conceivable 
kind  of  explanation,  running  them  to  earth  in  the 
Monument,  the  Twopenny  Tube,  Epping  Forest, 
Westminster  Abbey,  rolled  up  in  carpets  at 
Shoolbreds,  locked  up  in  safes  in  Chancery  Lane. 
Yes,  the  papers  were  very  interesting,  and  Mr. 
Tumbull  unrolled  a  whole  bundle  of  them  for  the 
amusement  of  Mr.  Maclan  as  they  sat  on  a  high 
common  to  the  north  of  London,  in  the  coming 
of  the  white  dawn. 

The  darkness  in  the  east  had  been  broken  with 
a  bar  of  grey;  the  bar  of  grey  was  split  with  a 
sword  of  silver  and  morning  lifted  itself  labori- 
ously over  London.  From  the  spot  where  Turn- 
bull  and  Maclan  were  sitting  on  one  of  the  barren 
steeps  behind  Hampstead,  they  could  see  the 
whole  of  London  shaping  itself  vaguely  and 
largely  in  the  grey  and  growing  light,  until  the 
white  sun  stood  over  it  and  it  lay  at  their  feet, 
the  splendid  monstrosity  that  it  is.     Its  bewilder- 


74      THE    BALL    AND    THE    CROSS 

ing  squares  and  parallelograms  were  compact  and 
perfect  as  a  Chinese  puzzle;  an  enormous  hiero- 
glyphic which  man  must  decipher  or  die.  There 
fell  upon  both  of  them,  but  upon  Turnbull  more 
than  the  other,  because  he  knew  more  what  the 
scene  signified,  that  quite  indescribable  sense  as 
of  a  sublime  and  passionate  and  heart-moving 
futility,  which  is  never  evoked  by  deserts  or  dead 
men  or  men  neglected  and  barbarous,  which  can 
only  be  invoked  by  the  sight  of  the  enormous 
genius  of  man  applied  to  anything  other  than  the 
best.  Turnbull,  the  old  idealistic  democrat,  had 
so  often  reviled  the  democracy  and  reviled  them 
justly  for  their  supineness,  their  snobbishness, 
their  evil  reverence  for  idle  things.  He  was  right 
enough;  for  our  democracy  has  only  one  great 
fault;  it  is  not  democratic.  And  after  denounc- 
ing so  justly  average  modern  men  for  so  many 
years  as  sophists  and  as  slaves,  he  looked  down 
from  an  empty  slope  in  Hampstead  and  saw  what 
gods  they  are.  Their  achievement  seemed  all  the 
more  heroic  and  divine,  because  it  seemed  doubt- 
ful whether  it  was  worth  doing  at  all.  There 
seemed  to  be  something  greater  than  mere  accu- 
racy in  making  such  a  mistake  as  London.  And 
what  was  to  be  the  end  of  it  all?  what  was  to  be 


A    DISCUSSION    AT    DAWN  75 

the  ultimate  transformation  of  this  common  and 
incredible  London  man,  this  workman  on  a  tram 
in  Battersea,  this  clerk  on  an  omnibus  in  Cheap- 
side?  Turnbull^  as  he  stared  drearily,  murmured 
to  himself  the  words  of  the  old  atheistic  and  revo- 
lutionary Swinburne  who  had  intoxicated  his 
youth : 

"And  still  we  ask  if  God  or  man 
Can  loosen  thee  Lazarus; 
Bid  thee  rise  up  republican, 
And  save  thyself  and  all  of  us. 
But  no  disciple's  tongue  can  say 
If  thou  can'st  take  our  sins  away." 

Turnbull  shivered  slightly  as  if  behind  the 
earthly  morning  he  felt  the  evening  of  the  world, 
the  sunset  of  so  many  hopes.  Those  words  were 
from  "  Songs  before  Sunrise."  But  Turnbull's 
songs  at  their  best  were  songs  after  sunrise,  and 
sunrise  had  been  no  such  great  thing  after  all. 
Turnbull  shivered  again  in  the  sharp  morning  air. 
Maclan  was  also  gazing  with  his  face  towards  the 
city,  but  there  was  that  about  his  blind  and  mys- 
tical stare  that  told  one,  so  to  speak,  that  his  eyes 
were  turned  inwards.  When  Turnbull  said  some- 
thing to  him  about  London,  they  seemed  to  move 
as  at  a  summons  and  come  out  like  two  house- 
holders coming  out  into  their  doorways. 


76      THE    BALL    AND    THE    CROSS 

"  Yes,"  he  said^  with  a  sort  of  stupidity.  "  It's 
a  very  big  place." 

There  was  a  somewhat  unmeaning  silence,  and 
then  Maclan  said  again : 

"  It's  a  very  big  place.  When  I  first  came  into 
it  I  was  frightened  of  it.  Frightened  exactly  as 
one  would  be  frightened  at  the  sight  of  a  man 
forty  feet  high.  I  am  used  to  big  things  where 
I  come  from,  big  mountains  that  seem  to  fill  God's 
infinity,  and  the  big  sea  that  goes  to  the  end  of 
the  world.  But  then  these  things  are  all  shape- 
less and  confused  things,  not  made  in  any  familiar 
form.  But  to  see  the  plain,  square,  human  things 
as  large  as  that,  houses  so  large  and  streets  so 
large,  and  the  town  itself  so  large,  was  like  having 
screwed  some  devil's  magnifying  glass  into  one's 
eye.  It  was  like  seeing  a  porridge  bowl  as  big  as 
a  house,  or  a  mouse-trap  made  to  catch  elephants." 

"  Like  the  land  of  the  Brobdingnagians,"  said 
Turnbull,  smiling. 

"  Oh !    Where  is  that  ?  "  said  Maclan. 

Turnbull  said  bitterly,  "  In  a  book,"  and  the 
silence  fell  suddenly  between  them  again. 

They  were  sitting  in  a  sort  of  litter  on  the  hill- 
side; all  the  things  they  had  hurriedly  collected, 
in  various  places,  for  their  flight,  were  strewn 


A   DISCUSSION    AT    DAWN         77 

indiscriminately  round  them.  The  two  swords 
with  which  they  had  lately  sought  each  other's 
lives  were  flung  down  on  the  grass  at  random,  like 
two  idle  walking-sticks.  Some  provisions  they  had 
bought  last  night,  at  a  low  public  house,  in  case 
of  undefined  contingencies,  were  tossed  about  like 
the  materials  of  an  ordinary  picnic,  here  a  packet 
of  chocolate,  and  there  a  bottle  of  wine.  And  to 
add  to  the  disorder  finally,  there  were  strewn  on 
top  of  everything,  the  most  disorderly  of  modern 
things,  newspapers,  and  more  newspapers,  and 
yet  again  newspapers,  the  ministers  of  the  mod- 
ern anarchy.  Turnbull  picked  up  one  of  them 
drearily,  and  took  out  a  pipe. 

"  There's  a  lot  about  us,"  he  said.  "  Do  you 
mind  if  I  light  up?  " 

"  Why  should  I  mind?  "  asked  Maclan. 

Turnbull  eyed  with  a  certain  studious  interest, 
the  man  who  did  not  understand  any  of  the  verbal 
courtesies;  he  lit  his  pipe  and  blew  great  clouds 
out  of  it. 

"  Yes,"  he  resumed.  "  The  matter  on  which 
you  and  I  are  engaged  is  at  this  moment  really  the 
best  copy  in  England.  I  am  a  journalist,  and  I 
know.  For  the  first  time,  perhaps,  for  many 
generations,  the  English  are  really  more  angry 


78      THE    BALL    AND    THE    CROSS 

about  a  wrong  thing  done  in  England  than  they 
are  about  a  wrong  thing  done  in  France." 

"  It  is  not  a  wrong  thing,"  said  Maclan. 

Tumbull  laughed.  "  You  seem  unable  to  un- 
derstand the  ordinary  use  of  the  human  language. 
If  I  did  not  suspect  that  you  were  a  genius,  I 
should  certainly  know  you  were  a  blockhead.  I 
fancy  we  had  better  be  getting  along  and  collect- 
ing our  baggage." 

And  he  jumped  up  and  began  shoving  tlie  lug- 
gage into  his  pockets,  or  strapping  it  on  to  his 
back.  As  he  thrust  a  tin  of  canned  meat,  any- 
how, into  his  bursting  side  pocket,  he  said, 
casually : 

"  I  only  meant  that  you  and  I  are  the  most 
prominent  people  in  the  English  papers." 

"  Well,  what  did  you  expect?  "  asked  Maclan, 
opening  his  great  grave  blue  eyes. 

"  The  papers  are  full  of  us,"  said  Turnbull, 
stooping  to  pick  up  one  of  the  swords. 

Maclan  stooped  and  picked  up  the  other. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  in  his  simple  way.  "  I  have 
read  what  they  have  to  say.  But  they  don't  seem 
to  understand  the  point." 

"The  point  of  what?"  asked  Turnbull. 

"  The  point  of  the  sword,"  said  Maclan,  vio- 


A    DISCUSSION    AT    DAWN  79 

lently,  and  planted  the  steel  point  in  the  soil  like 
a  man  planting  a  tree. 

"  That  is  a  point,"  said  Turnbull,  grimly,  "  that 
we  will  discuss  later.    Come  along." 

Turnbull  tied  the  last  tin  of  biscuits  desperately 
to  himself  with  string ;  and  then  spoke,  like  a  diver 
girt  for  plunging,  short  and  sharp. 

"  Now,  Mr.  Maclan,  you  must  listen  to  me. 
You  must  listen  to  me,  not  merely  because  I  know 
the  country,  which  you  might  learn  by  looking  at 
a  map,  but  because  I  know  the  people  of  the  coun- 
try, whom  you  could  not  know  by  living  here 
thirty  years.  That  infernal  city  down  there  is 
awake ;  and  it  is  awake  against  us.  All  those  end- 
less rows  of  windows  and  windows  are  all  eyes 
staring  at  us.  All  those  forests  of  chimneys  are 
fingers  pointing  at  us,  as  we  stand  here  on  the 
hillside.  This  thing  has  caught  on.  For  the 
next  six  mortal  months  they  will  think  of  nothing 
but  us,  as  for  six  mortal  months  they  thought  of 
nothing  but  the  Dreyfus  case.  Oh,  I  know  it's 
funny.  They  let  starving  children,  who  don't 
want  to  die,  drop  by  the  score  without  looking 
round.  But  because  two  gentlemen,  from  private 
feelings  of  delicacy,  do  want  to  die,  they  will  mob- 
ilise the  army  and  navy  to  prevent  them.     For 


8o      THE    BALL    AND    THE    CROSS 

half  a  year  or  more,  you  and  I,  Mr.  Maclan,  will 
be  an  obstacle  to  every  reform  in  the  British  Em^ 
pire.  We  shall  prevent  the  Chinese  being  sent  out 
of  the  Transvaal  and  the  blocks  being  stopped  in 
the  Strand.  We  shall  be  the  conversational  sub- 
stitute when  any  one  recommends  Home  Rule,  or 
complains  of  sky  signs.  Therefore,  do  not  im- 
agine, in  your  innocence,  that  we  have  only  to 
melt  away  among  those  English  hills  as  a  High- 
land cateran  might  into  your  god-forsaken  High- 
land mountains.  We  must  be  eternally  on  our 
guard;  we  must  live  the  hunted  life  of  two  dis- 
tinguished criminals.  We  must  expect  to  be 
recognised  as  much  as  if  we  were  Napoleon  es- 
caping from  Elba.  We  must  be  prepared  for  our 
descriptions  being  sent  to  every  tiny  village,  and 
for  our  faces  being  recognised  by  every  ambitious 
policeman.  We  must  often  sleep  under  the  stars 
as  if  we  were  in  Africa.  Last  and  most  import- 
ant we  must  not  dream  of  effecting  our — our 
final  settlement,  which  will  be  a  thing  as  famous 
as  the  Phoenix  Park  murders,  unless  we  have 
made  real  and  precise  arrangements  for  our  iso- 
lation— I  will  not  say  our  safety.  We  must  not, 
in  short,  fight ;  until  we  have  thrown  them  off  our 
scent,  if  only  for  a  moment.    For,  take  my  word 


A    DISCUSSION    AT    DAWN  8i 

for  it,  Mr.  Maclan,  if  the  British  Public  once 
catches  us  up,  the  British  Pubhc  will  prevent  the 
duel,  if  it  is  only  by  locking  us  both  up  in  asylums 
for  the  rest  of  our  days." 

Maclan  was  looking  at  the  horizon  with  a 
rather  misty  look. 

"  I  am  not  at  all  surprised,"  he  said,  "  at  the 
world  being  against  us.  It  makes  me  feel  I  was 
right  to " 


"  Yes  ?  "  said  Turnbull. 

"  To  smash  your  window,"  said  Maclan.  "  I 
have  woken  up  the  world." 

"  Very  well,  then,"  said  Turnbull,  stolidly. 
"  Let  us  look  at  a  few  final  facts.  Beyond  that 
hill  there  is  comparatively  clear  country.  Fortu- 
nately, I  know  the  part  well,  and  if  you  will  follow 
me  exactly,  and,  when  necessary,  on  your  stomach, 
we  may  be  able  to  get  ten  miles  out  of  London, 
literally  without  meeting  any  one  at  all,  which  will 
be  the  best  possible  beginning,  at  any  rate.  We 
have  provisions  for  at  least  two  days  and  two 
nights,  three  days  if  we  do  it  carefully.  We  may 
be  able  to  get  fifty  or  sixty  miles  away  without 
even  walking  into  an  inn  door.  I  have  the  bis- 
cuits and  the  tinned  meat,  and  the  milk.  You 
have  the  chocolate,  I  think?    And  the  brandy?  " 


82       THE    BALL    AND    THE    CROSS 

"  Yes,"  said  Maclan,  like  a  soldier  taking 
orders. 

"  Very  well,  then,  come  on.  March.  We  turn 
under  Ihat  third  bush  and  so  down  into  the  val- 
ley."   And  he  set  off  ahead  at  a  swinging  walk. 

Then  he  stopped  suddenly ;  for  he  realised  that 
the  other  was  not  following.  Evan  Maclan  was 
leaning  on  his  sword  with  a  lowering  face,  like 
a  man  suddenly  smitten  still  with  doubt. 

"  What  on  earth  is  the  matter?  "  asked  Turn- 
bull,  staring  in  some  anger. 

Evan  made  no  reply. 

"  What  the  deuce  is  the  matter  with  you?  "  de- 
manded the  leader,  again,  his  face  slowly  growing 
as  red  as  his  beard;  then  he  said,  suddenly,  and 
in  a  more  human  voice,  "  Are  you  in  pain, 
Maclan  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  replied  the  Highlander,  without  lifting 
his  face. 

"  Take  some  brandy,"  cried  Turnbull,  walk- 
ing forward  hurriedly  towards  him.  "  You've 
got  it." 

"  It's  not  in  the  body,"  said  Maclan,  in  his  dull, 
strange  way.  "  The  pain  has  come  into  my  mind. 
A  very  dreadful  thing  has  just  come  into  my 
thoughts." 


A   DISCUSSION    AT    DAWN         83 

"  What  the  devil  are  you  talking  about  ?  "  asked 
Turnbull. 

Maclan  broke  out  with  a  queer  and  living 
voice. 

"  We  must  fight  now,  Turnbull.  We  must 
fight  now.  A  frightful  thing  has  come  upon  me, 
and  I  know  it  must  be  now  and  here.  I  must  kill 
you  here,"  he  cried,  with  a  sort  of  tearful  rage  im- 
possible to  describe.  *'  Here,  here,  upon  this 
blessed  grass." 

"  Why,  you  idiot,"  began  Turnbull. 

"  The  hour  has  come — the  black  hour  God 
meant  for  it.  Quick,  it  will  soon  be  gone. 
Quick!" 

And  he  flung  the  scabbard  from  him  furiously, 
and  stood  with  the  sunlight  sparkling  along  his 
sword. 

"  You  confounded  fool,"  repeated  Turnbull. 
"  Put  that  thing  up  again,  you  ass ;  people  will 
come  out  of  that  house  at  the  first  clash  of  the 
steel." 

"  One  of  us  will  be  dead  before  they  come," 
said  the  other,  hoarsely,  "  for  this  is  the  hour  God 
meant." 

"  Well,  I  never  thought  much  of  God,"  said 
the  editor  of  "  The  Atheist,"  losing  all  patience. 


84      THE    BALL    AND    THE    CROSS 

"  And  I  think  less  now.  Never  mind  what  God 
meant.  Kindly  enlighten  my  pagan  darkness  as 
to  what  the  devil  you  mean." 

"  The  hour  will  soon  be  gone.  In  a  moment  it 
will  be  gone,"  said  the  madman.  "  It  is  now,  now, 
now  that  I  must  nail  your  blaspheming  body  to  the 
earth — now,  now  that  I  must  avenge  Our  Lady 
on  her  vile  slanderer.  Now  or  never.  For  the 
dreadful  thought  is  in  my  mind." 

"  And  what  thought,"  asked  Tumbull,  with 
frantic  composure,  "  occupies  what  you  call  your 
mind?" 

"  I  must  kill  you  now,"  said  the  fanatic, 
"  because " 

"  Well,  because,"  said  Turnbull,  patiently. 

"  Because  I  have  begun  to  like  you." 

Tumbull's  face  had  a  sudden  spasm  in  the  sun- 
light, a  change  so  instantaneous  that  it  left  no 
trace  behind  it;  and  his  features  seemed  still 
carved  into  a  cold  stare.  But  when  he  spoke 
again  he  seemed  like  a  man  who  was  placidly  pre- 
tending to  misunderstand  something  that  he  un- 
derstood perfectly  well. 

"  Your  affection  expresses  itself  in  an  abrupt 
form,"  he  began,  but  Maclan  broke  the  brittle  and 
frivolous  speech  to  pieces  with  a  violent  voice. 


A   DISCUSSION    AT    DAWN         85 

"  Do  not  trouble  to  talk  like  that,"  he  said.  "  You 
know  what  I  mean  as  well  as  I  know  it.  Come 
on  and  fight,  I  say.  Perhaps  you  are  feeling  just 
as  I  do." 

Turnbull's  face  flinched  again  in  the  fierce  sun- 
light, but  his  attitude  kept  its  contemptuous  ease. 

"  Your  Celtic  mind  really  goes  too  fast  for  me," 
he  said ;  "  let  me  be  permitted  in  my  heavy  Low- 
land way  to  understand  this  new  development. 
My  dear  Mr.  Maclan,  what  do  you  really  mean  ?  " 

Maclan  still  kept  the  shining  sword-point 
towards  the  other's  breast. 

"  You  know  what  I  mean.  You  mean  the  same 
yourself.    We  must  fight  now  or  else " 

"  Or  else?  "  repeated  Turnbull,  staring  at  him 
with  an  almost  blinding  gravity. 

"  Or  else  we  may  not  want  to  fight  at  all,"  an- 
swered Evan,  and  the  end  of  his  speech  was  like 
a  despairing  cry. 

Turnbull  took  out  his  own  sword  suddenly  as 
if  to  engage;  then  planting  it  point  downwards 
for  a  moment;,  he  said,  "  Before  we  begin,  may  I 
ask  you  a  question?  " 

Maclan  bowed  patiently,  but  with  burning 
eyes. 

"  You   said,   just   now,"    continued   Turnbull, 


86      THE    BALL    AND    THE    CROSS 

presently,  "  that  if  we  did  not  fight  now,  we  might 
not  want  to  fight  at  all.  How  would  you  feel 
about  the  matter  if  we  came  not  to  want  to  fight 
at  all?" 

"  I  should  feel,"  answered  the  other,  "  just  as 
I  should  feel  if  you  had  drawn  your  sword,  and  I 
had  run  away  from  it.  I  should  feel  that  be- 
cause I  had  been  weak,  justice  had  not  been 
done." 

"  Justice,"  answered  Tumbull,  with  a  thought- 
ful smile,  "  but  we  are  talking  about  your  feelings. 
And  what  do  you  mean  by  justice,  apart  from 
your  feelings?  " 

Maclan  made  a  gesture  of  weary  recognition! 
"  Oh,  Nominalism,"  he  said,  with  a  sort  of  sigh, 
"  we  had  all  that  out  in  the  twelfth  century." 

"  I  wish  we  could  have  it  out  now,"  replied  the 
other,  firmly.  "  Do  you  really  mean  that  if  you 
came  to  think  me  right,  you  would  be  certainly 
wrong?  " 

"HI  had  a  blow  on  the  back  of  my  head,  I 
might  come  to  think  you  a  green  elephant," 
answered  Maclan,  "  but  have  I  not  the  right  to 
say  now,  that  if  I  thought  that  I  should  think 
wrong  ?  " 

"  Then  you  are  quite  certain  that  it  would  be 


A    DISCUSSION    AT    DAWN         87 

wrong  to  like  me?  "  asked  Turnbull,  with  a  slight 
smile. 

"  No,"  said  Evan,  thoughtfully,  "  I  do  not  say- 
that.  It  may  not  be  the  devil,  it  may  be  some 
part  of  God  I  am  not  meant  to  know.  But  I  had 
a  work  to  do^  and  it  is  making  the  work  difficult." 

"  And  I  suppose,"  said  the  atheist,  quite  gently, 
"  that  you  and  I  know  all  about  which  part  of  God 
we  ought  to  know." 

Maclan  burst  out  like  a  man  driven  back  and 
explaining  everything. 

"  The  Church  is  not  a  thing  like  the  Athenaeum 
Club,"  he  cried.  "  If  the  Athenaeum  Club  lost  all 
its  members,  the  Athenaeum  Club  would  dissolve 
and  cease  to  exist.  But  when  we  belong  to  the 
Church  we  belong  to  something  which  is  outside 
all  of  us;  which  is  outside  everything  you  talk 
about,  outside  the  Cardinals  and  the  Pope.  They 
belong  to  it,  but  it  does  not  belong  to  them.  If 
we  all  fell  dead  suddenly,  the  Church  would  still 
somehow  exist  in  God.  Confound  it  all,  don't 
you  see  that  I  am  more  sure  of  its  existence  than 
I  am  of  my  own  existence?  And  yet  you  ask 
me  to  trust  my  temperament,  my  own  tempera- 
ment, which  can  be  turned  upside  down  by  two 
bottles  of  claret  or  an  attack  of  the  jaundice.    You 


88      THE    BALL    AND    THE    CROSS 

ask  me  to  trust  that  when  it  softens  towards  you 
and  not  to  trust  the  thing  which  I  beheve  to  be 
outside  myself  and  more  real  than  the  blood  in 
my  body." 

"  Stop  a  moment,"  said  Turnbull,  in  the  same 
easy  tone,  "  even  in  the  very  act  of  saying  that 
you  believe  this  or  that,  you  imply  that  there  is  a 
part  of  yourself  that  you  trust  even  if  there  are 
many  parts  which  you  mistrust.  If  it  is  only  you 
that  like  me,  surely,  also,  it  is  only  you  that  believe 
in  the  Catholic  Church." 

Evan  remained  in  an  unmoved  and  grave 
attitude. 

"  There  is  a  part  of  me  which  is  divine,"  he 
answered,  "  a  part  that  can  be  trusted,  but  there 
are  also  affections  which  are  entirely  animal  and 
idle." 

"  And  you  are  quite  certain,  I  suppose,"  con- 
tinued Turnbull,  "  that  if  even  you  esteem  me  the 
esteem  would  be  wholly  animal  and  idle?  "  For 
the  first  time  Maclan  started  as  if  he  had  not  ex- 
pected the  thing  that  was  said  to  him.  At  last 
he  said : 

"  Whatever  in  earth  or  heaven  it  is  that  has 
joined  us  two  together,  it  seems  to  be  something 
which  makes  it  impossible  to  lie.     No,  I  do  not 


A    DISCUSSION    AT    DAWN         89 

think  that  the  movement  in  me  towards  you  was 
.  .  .  was  that  surface  sort  of  thing.  It  may  have 
been  something  deeper  .  .  .  something  strange. 
I  cannot  understand  the  thing  at  all.  But  under- 
stand this  and  understand  it  thoroughly,  if  I  loved 
you  my  love  might  be  divine.  But  in  that  I  hate 
you,  my  hatred  most  certainly  is  divine.  No,  it 
is  not  some  trifle  that  we  are  fighting  about.  It 
is  not  some  superstition  or  some  symbol.  When 
you  wrote  those  words  about  Our  Lady,  you  were 
in  that  act  a  wicked  man  doing  a  wicked  thing. 
If  I  hate  you  it  is  because  you  have  hated  good- 
ness. And  if  I  like  you  ...  it  is  because  you 
are  good." 

Turnbull's  face  wore  an  indecipherable  ex- 
pression. 

"  Well,  shall  we  fight  now  ?  "  he  said. 

"  Yes,"  said  Maclan,  with  a  sudden  contraction 
of  his  black  brows,  "  yes,  it  must  be  now." 

The  bright  swords  crossed,  and  the  first  touch 
of  them,  travelling  down  blade  and  arm,  told  each 
combatant  that  the  heart  of  the  other  was  awak- 
ened. It  was  not  in  that  way  that  the  swords  rang 
together  when  they  had  rushed  on  each  other  in 
the  little  garden  behind  the  dealer's  shop. 

There  was  a  pause,  and  then  Maclan  made  a 


90      THE    BALL    AND    THE    CROSS 

movement  as  if  to  thrust,  and  almost  at  the  same 
moment  Turnbull  suddenly  and  calmly  dropped 
his  sword.  Evan  stared  round  in  an  unusual  be- 
wilderment, and  then  realised  that  a  large  man  in 
pale  clothes  and  a  Panama  hat  was  strolling 
serenely  towards  them. 


CHAPTER   V 


THE    PEACEMAKER 


When  the  combatants,  with  crossed  swords, 
became  suddenly  conscious  of  a  third  party,  they 
each  made  the  same  movement.  It  was  as  quick 
as  the  snap  of  a  pistol,  and  they  altered  it  instan- 
taneously and  recovered  their  original  pose,  but 
they  had  both  made  it,  they  had  both  seen  it,  and 
they  both  knew  what  it  was.  It  was  not  a  move- 
ment of  anger  at  being  interrupted.  Say  or  think 
what  they  would,  it  was  a  movement  of  relief. 
A  force  within  them,  and  yet  quite  beyond  them, 
seemed  slowly  and  pitilessly  washing  away  the 
adamant  of  their  oath.  As  mistaken  lovers  might 
watch  the  inevitable  sunset  of  first  love,  these  men 
watched  the  sunset  of  their  first  hatred. 

Their  hearts  were  growing  weaker  and  weaker 
against  each  other.  When  their  weapons  rang 
and  reposted  in  the  little  London  garden,  they 
could  have  been  very  certain  that  if  a  third 
party  had  interrupted  them  something  at  least 
would  have  happened.     They  would  have  killed 

91 


92       THE    BALL    AND    THE    CROSS 

each  other  or  they  would  have  killed  him.  But 
now  nothing  could  undo  or  deny  that  flash  of 
fact,  that  for  a  second  they  had  been  glad  to 
be  interrupted.  Some  new  and  strange  thing 
was  rising  higher  and  higher  in  their  hearts  like 
a  high  sea  at  night.  It  was  something  that  seemed 
all  the  more  merciless,  because  it  might  turn  out 
an  enormous  mercy.  Was  there,  perhaps,  some 
such  fatalism  in  friendship  as  all  lovers  talk  about 
in  love?  Did  God  make  men  love  each  other 
against  their  will? 

"  I'm  sure  you'll  excuse  my  speaking  to  you," 
said  the  stranger,  in  a  voice  at  once  eager  and 
deprecating. 

The  voice  was  too  polite  for  good  manners.  It 
was  incongruous  with  the  eccentric  spectacle  of 
the  duellists  which  ought  to  have  startled  a  sane 
and  free  man.  It  was  also  incongruous  with  the 
full  and  healthy,  though  rather  loose  physique  of 
the  man  who  spoke.  At  the  first  glance  he  looked 
a  fine  animal,  with  curling  gold  beard  and  hair, 
and  blue  eyes,  unusually  bright.  It  was  only  at 
the  second  glance  that  the  mind  felt  a  sudden  and 
perhaps  unmeaning  irritation  at  the  way  in  which 
the  gold  beard  retreated  backwards  into  the  waist- 
coat, and  the  way  in  which  the  finely  shaped  nose 


THE    PEACEMAKER  93 

went  forward  as  if  smelling  its  way.  And  it  was 
only,  perhaps,  at  the  hundredth  glance  that  the 
bright  blue  eyes,  which  normally  before  and 
after  the  instant  seemed  brilliant  with  intelli- 
gence, seemed  as  it  were  to  be  brilliant  with 
idiocy.  He  was  a  heavy,  healthy  working  man, 
who  looked  all  the  larger  because  of  the  loose, 
light  coloured  clothes  that  he  wore,  and  that  had 
in  their  extreme  lightness  and  looseness,  almost  a 
touch  of  the  tropics.  But  a  closer  examination  of 
his  attire  would  have  shown  that  even  in  the 
tropics  it  would  have  been  unique;  but  it  was  all 
woven  according  to  some  hygienic  texture  which 
no  human  being  had  ever  heard  of  before,  and 
which  was  absolutely  necessary  even  for  a  day's 
health.  He  wore  a  huge  broad-brimmed  hat, 
equally  hygienic,  very  much  at  the  back  of  his 
head,  and  his  voice  coming  out  of  so  heavy  and 
hearty  a  type  of  man  was,  as  I  have  said,  start- 
lingly  shrill  and  deferential. 

"  I'm  sure  you'll  excuse  my  speaking  to  you," 
he  said.  "  Now,  I  wonder  if  you  are  in  some  little 
difficulty  which,  after  all,  we  could  settle  very 
comfortably  together  ?  Now,  you  don't  mind  my 
saying  this,  do  you?  " 

The  faces  of  both  combatants  remained  some- 


94      THE    BALL   AND    THE    CROSS 

what  solid  under  this  appeal.  But  the  stranger, 
probably  taking  their  silence  for  a  gathering 
shame,  continued  with  a  kind  of  gaiety : 

"  So  you  are  the  young  men  I  have  read  about 
in  the  papers.  Well,  of  course,  when  one  is 
young,  one  is  rather  romantic.  Do  you  know 
what  I  always  say  to  young  people  ?  " 

A  blank  silence  followed  this  gay  inquiry. 
Then  Turnbull  said  in  a  colourless  voice : 

"  As  I  was  forty-seven  last  birthday,  I  probably 
came  into  the  world  too  soon  for  the  experience." 

*' Very  good,  very  good,"  said  the  friendly 
•person.  "  Dry  Scotch  humour.  Dry  Scotch  hu- 
mour. Well  now.  I  understand  that  you  two 
people  want  to  fight  a  duel.  I  suppose  you  aren't 
much  up  in  the  modern  world.  We've  quite  out- 
grown duelling,  you  know.  In  fact,  Tolstoy  tells 
us  that  we  shall  soon  outgrow  war,  which  he  says 
is  simply  a  duel  between  nations.  A  duel  between 
nations.  But  there  is  no  doubt  about  our  having 
outgrown  duelling." 

Waiting  for  some  effect  upon  his  wooden  audi* 
tors,  the  stranger  stood  beaming  for  a  moment  and 
then  resumed : 

"  Now,  they  tell  me  in  the  newspapers  that  you 
are  really  wanting  to  fight  about  something  con- 


THE    PEACEMAKER  95 

nected  with  Roman  Catholicism.  Now,  do  you 
know  what  I  always  say  to  Roman  Catholics  ?  " 

"No,"  said  Turnbull,  heavily.  "Do  they?" 
It  seemed  to  be  a  characteristic  of  the  hearty,  hy- 
gienic gentleman  that  he  always  forgot  the  speech 
he  had  made  the  moment  before.  Without  en- 
larging further  on  the  fixed  form  of  his  appeal  to 
the  Church  of  Rome,  he  laughed  cordially  at 
Turnbull's  answer;  then  his  wandering  blue  eyes 
caught  the  sunlight  on  the  swords,  and  he  assumed 
a  good-humoured  gravity. 

"  But  you  know  this  is  a  serious  matter,"  he 
said,  eyeing  Turnbull  and  Maclan,  as  if  they  had 
just  been  keeping  the  table  in  a  roar  with  their 
frivolities.  "  I  am  sure  that  if  I  appealed  to  your 
higher  natures  .  .  .  your  higher  natures.  Every 
man  has  a  higher  nature  and  a  lower  nature. 
Now,  let  us  put  the  matter  very  plainly,  and  with- 
out any  romantic  nonsense  about  honour  or  any- 
thing of  that  sort.    Is  not  bloodshed  a  great  sin  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Maclan,  speaking  for  the  first  time. 

"  Well,  really,  really  !  "  said  the  peacemaker. 

"  Murder  is  a  sin/'  said  the  immovable  High- 
lander.   "  There  is  no  sin  of  bloodshed." 

"  Well,  we  won't  quarrel  about  a  word,"  said 
the  other,  pleasantly. 


96      THE    BALL    AND    THE    CROSS 

"  Why  on  earth  not  ?  "  said  Maclan,  with  a  sud- 
den asperity.  "  Why  shouldn't  we  quarrel  about 
a  word?  What  is  the  good  of  words  if  they 
aren't  important  enough  to  quarrel  over?  Why 
do  we  choose  one  word  more  than  another  if  there 
isn't  any  difference  between  them  ?  If  you  called 
a  woman  a  chimpanzee  instead  of  an  angel, 
wouldn't  there  be  a  quarrel  about  a  word?  If 
you're  not  going  to  argue  about  words,  what  are 
you  going  to  argue  about?  Are  you  going  to 
convey  your  meaning  to  me  by  moving  your  ears  ? 
The  Church  and  the  heresies  always  used  to  fight 
about  words,  because  they  are  the  only  things 
worth  fighting  about.  I  say  that  murder  is  a  sin, 
and  bloodshed  is  not,  and  that  there  is  as  much 
difference  between  those  words  as  there  is  between 
the  word  '  yes  '  and  the  word  '  no  ' ;  or  rather  more 
difference,  for  *  yes  '  and  '  no,'  at  least,  belong  to 
the  same  category.  Murder  is  a  spiritual  inci- 
dent. Bloodshed  is  a  physical  incident.  A  sur- 
geon commits  bloodshed." 

"  Ah,  you're  a  casuist !  "  said  the  large  man, 
wagging  his  head.  "  Now,  do  you  know  what  I 
always  say  to  casuists  ...    ?  " 

Maclan  made  a  violent  gesture;  and  TumbuU 
broke  into  open  laughter.     The  peacemaker  did 


THE    PEACEMAKER  97 

not  seem  to  be  in  the  least  annoyed,  but  continued 
in  unabated  enjoyment. 

"  Well,  well,"  he  said,  "  let  us  get  back  to  the 
point.  Now  Tolstoy  has  shown  that  force  is  no 
remedy;  so  you  see  the  position  in  which  I  am 
placed.  I  am  doing  my  best  to  stop  what  I'm 
sure  you  won't  mind  my  calling  this  really  use- 
less violence,  this  really  quite  wrong  violence  of 
yours.  But  it's  against  my  principles  to  call  in 
the  police  against  you,  because  the  police  are  still 
on  a  lower  moral  plane,  so  to  speak,  because,  in 
short,  the  police  undoubtedly  sometimes  employ 
force.  Tolstoy  has  shown  that  violence  merely 
breeds  violence  in  the  person  towards  whom  it  is 
used,  whereas  Love,  on  the  other  hand,  breeds 
Love.  So  you  see  how  I  am  placed.  I  am  re- 
duced to  use  Love  in  order  to  stop  you.  I  am 
obliged  to  use  Love." 

He  gave  to  the  word  an  indescribable  sound  of 
something  hard  and  heavy,  as  if  he  were  saying 
"  boots."  Turnbull  suddenly  gripped  his  sword 
and  said,  shortly,  "  I  see  how  you  are  placed  quite 
well,  sir.  You  will  not  call  the  police.  Mr.  Mac- 
Ian,  shall  we  engage?"  Maclan  plucked  his 
sword  out  of  the  grass. 

"  I  must  and  will  stop  this  shocking  crime," 


98      THE    BALL    AND    THE    CROSS 

cried  the  Tolstoian,  crimson  in  the  face.  "  It  is 
against  all  modern  ideas.  It  is  against  the  prin- 
ciple of  love.  How  you,  sir,  who  pretend  to  be 
a  Christian.  ,  ," 

Maclan  turned  upon  him  with  a  white  face  and 
bitter  lip.  "  Sir,"  he  said,  "  talk  about  the  prin- 
ciple of  love  as  much  as  you  like.  You  seem  to 
me  colder  than  a  lump  of  stone ;  but  I  am  willing 
to  believe  that  you  may  at  some  time  have  loved  a 
cat,  or  a  dog,  or  a  child.  When  you  were  a  baby, 
I  suppose  you  loved  your  mother.  Talk  about 
love,  then,  till  the  world  is  sick  of  the  word.  But 
don't  you  talk  about  Christianity.  Don't  you  dare 
to  say  one  word,  white  or  black,  about  it.  Chris- 
tianity is,  as  far  as  you  are  concerned,  a  horrible 
mystery.  Keep  clear  of  it,  keep  silent  upon  it, 
as  you  would  upon  an  abomination.  It  is  a  thing 
that  has  made  men  slay  and  torture  each  other; 
and  you  will  never  know  why.  It  is  a  thing  that 
has  made  men  do  evil  that  good  might  come ;  and 
you  will  never  understand  the  evil,  let  alone  the 
good.  Christianity  is  a  thing  that  could  only 
make  you  vomit,  till  you  are  other  than  you 
are.  I  would  not  justify  it  to  you  even  if  I 
could.  Hate  it,  in  God's  name,  as  Turnbull 
does,  who  is  a  man.     It  is  a  monstrous  thing. 


THE    PEACEMAKER  99 

for  which  men  die.  And  if  you  will  stand  here 
and  talk  about  love  for  another  ten  minutes 
it  is  very  probable  that  you  will  see  a  man  die 
for  it." 

And  he  fell  on  guard.  Turnbull  was  busy  set- 
tling something  loose  in  his  elaborate  hilt,  and  the 
pause  was  broken  by  the  stranger. 

"Suppose  I  call  the  police?"  he  said,  with  a 
heated  face. 

"  And  deny  your  most  sacred  dogma,"  said 
Maclan. 

"  Dogma !  "  cried  the  man,  in  a  sort  of  dismay. 
"  Oh,  we  have  no  dogmas,  you  know !  " 

There  was  another  silence,  and  he  said  again, 
airily  : 

"  You  know,  I  think,  there's  something  in  what 
Shaw  teaches  about  no  moral  principles  being 
quite  fixed.  Have  you  ever  read  '  The  Quint- 
essence of  Ibsenism  ?  '  Of  course  he  went  very 
wrong  over  the  war." 

Turnbull,  with  a  bent,  flushed  face,  was  tying 
up  the  loose  piece  of  the  pommel  with  string. 
With  the  string  in  his  teeth,  he  said.  "  Oh,  make 
up  your  damned  mind  and  clear  out  1  " 

"  It's  a  serious  thing,"  said  the  philosopher, 
shaking  his  head.    "  I  must  be  alone  and  consider 


loo     THE    BALL    AND    THE    CROSS 

which  is  the  higher  point  of  view.  I  rather  feel 
that  in  a  case  so  extreme  as  this  ..."  and  he 
went  slowly  away.  As  he  disappeared  among-  the 
trees,  they  heard  him  murmuring  in  a  sing-song 
voice,  "  New  occasions  teach  new  duties,"  out  of 
a  poem  by  James  Russell  Lowell. 

"  Ah,"  said  Maclan,  drawing  a  deep  breath. 
"  Don't  you  believe  in  prayer  now  ?  I  prayed  for 
an  angel." 

"  I  am  afraid  I  don't  understand,"  answered 
Turnbull. 

"  An  hour  ago,"  said  the  Highlander,  in  his 
heavy  meditative  voice,  "  I  felt  the  devil  weaken- 
ing my  heart  and  my  oath  against  you,  and  I 
prayed  that  God  would  send  an  angel  to  my 
aid." 

"  Well  ? "  inquired  the  other,  finishing  his 
mending  and  wrapping  the  rest  of  the  string 
round  his  hand  to  get  a  firmer  grip. 

"Well?" 

"  Well,  that  man  was  an  angel,"  said  Maclan. 

"  I  didn't  know  they  were  as  bad  as  that," 
answered  Turnbull. 

"  We  know  that  devils  sometimes  quote  Scrip- 
ture and  counterfeit  good,"  replied  the  mystic. 
**  Why  should  not  angels  sometimes  come  to  show 


THE    PEACEMAKER  loi 

us  the  black  abyss  of  evil  on  whose  brink  we  stand. 
If  that  man  had  not  tried  to  stop  us  ...  I  might 
...  I  might  have  stopped." 

"  I  know  what  you  mean,"  said  Turnbull, 
grimly. 

"  But  then  he  came,"  broke  out  Maclan,  "  and 
my  soul  said  to  me :  *  Give  up  fighting,  and  you 
will  become  like  That.  Give  up  vows  and  dogmas, 
and  fixed  things,  and  you  may  grow  like  That. 
You  may  learn,  also,  that  fog  of  false  philosophy. 
You  may  grow  fond  of  that  mire  of  crawling, 
cowardly  morals,  and  you  may  come  to  think  a 
blow  bad,  because  it  hurts,  and  not  because  it 
humiliates.  You  may  come  to  think  murder 
wrong,  because  it  is  violent,  and  not  because  it 
is  unjust.  Oh,  you  blasphemer  of  the  good,  an 
hour  ago  I  almost  loved  you !  But  do  not  fear 
for  me  now.  I  have  heard  the  word  Love  pro- 
nounced in  his  intonation;  and  I  know  exactly 
wdiat  it  means.     On  guard !  '  " 

The  swords  caught  on  each  other  with  a  dread- 
ful clang  and  jar,  full  of  the  old  energy  and  hate; 
and  at  once  plunged  and  replunged.  Once  more 
each  man's  heart  had  become  the  magnet  of  a 
mad  sword.  Suddenly,  furious  as  they  were,  they 
were  frozen  for  a  moment  motionless. 


102     THE    BALL    AND    THE    CROSS 

"  What  noise  is  that  ?  "  asked  the  Highlander, 
hoarsely. 

"  I  think  I  know,"  replied  Turnbull. 

"  What  ?  .  .  .  What  ?  "  cried  the  other. 

"  The  student  of  Shaw  and  Tolstoy  has  made 
up  his  remarkable  mind,"  said  Turnbull,  quietly. 
"  The  police  are  coming  up  the  hill." 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE    OTHER    PHILOSOPHER 

Between  high  hedges  in  Hertfordshire,  hedges 
so  high  as  to  create  a  kind  of  grove,  two  men 
were  running.  They  did  not  run  in  a  scampering 
or  feverish  manner,  but  in  the  steady  swing  of 
the  pendulum.  Across  the  great  plains  and  up- 
lands to  the  right  and  left  of  the  lane,  a  long  tide 
of  sunset  light  rolled  like  a  sea  of  ruby,  lighting 
up  the  long  terraces  of  the  hills  and  picking  out 
the  few  windows  of  the  scattered  hamlets  in  start- 
ling blood-red  sparks.  But  the  lane  was  cut  deep 
in  the  hill  and  remained  in  an  abrupt  shadow. 
The  two  men  running  in  it  had  an  impression 
not  uncommonly  experienced  between  those  wild 
green  English  walls ;  a  sense  of  being  led  between 
the  walls  of  a  maze. 

Though  their  pace  was  steady  it  was  vigorous ; 
their  faces  were  heated  and  their  eyes  fixed  and 
bright.  There  was,  indeed,  something  a  little  mad 
in  the  contrast  between  the  evening's  stillness  over 

103 


I04     THE    BALL    AND    THE    CROSS 

the  empty  country-side,  and  these  two  figures  flee- 
ingf  wildly  from  nothing.  They  had  the  look  of 
two  lunatics,  possibly  they  were. 

"  Are  you  all  right?  "  said  Turnbull,  with  civil- 
ity.    "  Can  you  keep  this  up  ?  " 

"  Quite  easily,  thank  you,"  replied  Maclan. 
"  I  run  very  well." 

"  Is  that  a  qualification  in  a  family  of  war- 
riors?" asked  Turnbull. 

"  Undoubtedly.  Rapid  movement  is  essential," 
answered  Maclan,  who  never  saw  a  joke  in  his 
life. 

Turnbull  broke  out  into  a  short  laugh,  and 
silence  fell  between  them,  the  panting  silence  of 
runners. 

Then  Maclan  said :  "  We  run  better  than  any 
of  those  policemen.  They  are  too  fat.  Why  do 
you  make  your  policemen  so  fat  ?  " 

"  I  didn't  do  much  towards  making  them  fat 
myself,"  replied  Turnbull,  genially,  "  but  I  flatter 
myself  that  I  am  now  doing  something  towards 
making  them  thin.  You'll  see  they  will  be  as  lean 
as  rakes  by  the  time  they  catch  us.  They  will 
look  like  your  friend.  Cardinal  Manning." 

"  But  they  won't  catch  us,"  said  Maclan,  in  his 
literal  way. 


THE    OTHER    PHILOSOPHER      105 

"  No,  we  beat  them  in  the  great  military  art  of 
running-  away,"  returned  the  other,  "  They  won't 
catch  us  unless " 

Maclan  turned  his  long  equine  face  inquir- 
ingly. "  Unless  what  ?  "  he  said,  for  Turnbull 
had  gone  silent  suddenly,  and  seemed  to  be  listen- 
ing intently  as  he  ran  as  a  horse  does  with  his 
ears  turned  back. 

"Unless  what?"  repeated  the  Highlander. 

"  Unless  they  do — what  they  have  done.  Lis- 
ten." Maclan  slackened  his  trot,  and  turned  his 
head  to  the  trail  they  had  left  behind  them. 
Across  two  or  three  billows  of  the  up  and  down 
lane  came  along  the  ground  the  unmistakable 
throbbing  of  horses'  hoofs. 

"  They  have  put  the  mounted,  police  on  us," 
said  Turnbull,  shortly.  "  Good  Lord,  one  would 
think  we  were  a  Revolution." 

*'  So  we  are,"  said  Maclan,  calmly.  "  What 
shall  we  do?  Shall  we  turn  on  them  with  our 
points?  " 

"  It  may  come  to  that,"  answered  Turnbull, 
"  though  if  it  does^  I  reckon  that  will  be  the  last 
act.  We  must  put  it  off  if  we  can."  And  he 
stared  and  peered  about  him  between  the  bushes. 
"  If  we  could  hide  somewhere  the  beasts  might 


io6    THE    BALL    AND    THE    CROSS 

go  by  us,"  he  said.  "The  poHce  have  their  faults, 
but  thank  God  they're  inefficient.  Why,  here's  the 
very  thing.    Be  quick  and  quiet.     Follow  me." 

He  suddenly  swung  himself  up  the  high  bank 
on  one  side  of  the  lane.  It  was  almost  as  high 
and  smooth  as  a  wall,  and  on  the  top  of  it  the 
black  hedge  stood  out  over  them  as  an  angle, 
almost  like  a  thatched  roof  of  the  lane.  And  the 
burning  evening  sky  looked  down  at  them  through 
the  tangle  with  red  eyes  as  of  an  army  of  goblins. 

TurnbuU  hoisted  himself  up  and  broke  the 
hedge  with  his  body.  As  his  head  and  shoulders 
rose  above  it  they  turned  to  flame  in  the  full  glow 
as  if  lit  up  by  an  immense  firelight.  His  red  hair 
and  beard  looked  almost  scarlet,  and  his  pale  face 
as  bright  as  a  boy's.  Something  violent,  some- 
thing that  was  at  once  love  and  hatred,  surged 
in  the  strange  heart  of  the  Gael  below  him.  He 
had  an  unutterable  sense  of  epic  importance,  as 
if  he  were  somehow  lifting  all  humanity  into  a 
prouder  and  more  passionate  region  of  the  air. 
As  he  swung  himself  up  also  into  the  evening 
light  he  felt  as  if  he  were  rising  on  enormous 
wings. 

Legends  of  the  morning  of  the  world  which 
he  had  heard  in  childhood  or  read  in  youth  came 


THE    OTHER    PHILOSOPHER      107 

back  upon  him  in  a  cloudy  splendour,  purple 
tales  of  wrath  and  friendship,  like  Roland  and 
Oliver,  or  Balin  and  Balan,  reminding  him  of 
emotional  entanglements.  Men  who  had  loved 
each  other  and  then  fought  each  other ;  men  who 
had  fought  each  other  and  then  loved  each  other, 
together  made  a  mixed  but  monstrous  sense  of 
momentousness.  The  crimson  seas  of  the  sunset 
seemed  to  him  like  a  bursting  out  of  some  sacred 
blood,  as  if  the  heart  of  the  world  had  broken. 

Turnbull  was  wholly  unaffected  by  any  written 
or  spoken  poetry ;  his  was  a  powerful  and  prosaic 
mind.  But  even  upon  him  there  came  for  the 
moment  something  out  of  the  earth  and  the  pas- 
sionate ends  of  the  sky.  The  only  evidence  was 
in  his  voice,  which  was  still  practical  but  a  shade 
more  quiet. 

"  Do  you  see  that  summer-house-looking  thing 
over  there  ?  "  he  asked  shortly.  "  That  will  do 
for  us  very  well." 

Keeping  himself  free  from  the  tangle  of  the 
hedge  he  strolled  across  a  triangle  of  obscure 
kitchen  garden,  and  approached  a  dismal  shed  or 
lodge  a  yard  or  two  beyond  it.  It  was  a  weather- 
stained  hut  of  grey  wood,  which  with  all  its  deso- 
lation retained  a  tag  or  two  of  trivial  ornament, 


io8    THE    BALL    AND    THE    CROSS 

which  suggested  that  the  thing  had  once  been  a 
sort  of  summer-house,  and  the  place  probably  a 
sort  of  garden. 

"  That  is  quite  invisible  from  the  road,"  said 
Tumbull,  as  he  entered  it,  "  and  it  will  cover  us 
up  for  the  night." 

Maclan  looked  at  him  gravely  for  a  few  mo- 
ments. "  Sir,"  he  said,  "  I  ought  to  say  something 
to  you.     I  ought  to  say " 

"  Hush,"  said  Turnbull,  suddenly  lifting  his 
hand;  "  be  still,  man." 

In  the  sudden  silence,  the  drumming  of  the  dis- 
tant horses  grew  louder  and  louder  with  incon- 
ceivable rapidity,  and  the  cavalcade  of  police 
rushed  by  below  them  in  the  lane,  almost  with 
the  roar  and  rattle  of  an  express  train. 

"  I  ought  to  tell  you,"  continued  Maclan,  still 
staring  stolidly  at  the  other,  "  that  you  are  a 
great  chief,  and  it  is  good  to  go  to  war  behind 
you." 

Tumbull  said  nothing,  but  turned  and  looked 
out  of  the  foolish  lattice  of  the  little  windows, 
then  he  said,  "  We  must  have  food  and  sleep 
first." 

When  the  last  echo  of  their  eluded  pursuers  had 
died  in  the  distant  uplands,  Turnbull  began  to 


THE    OTHER    PHILOSOPHER      109 

unpack  the  provisions  with  the  easy  air  of  a  man 
at  a  picnic.  He  had  just  laid  out  the  last  items, 
put  a  bottle  of  wine  on  the  floor,  and  a  tin  of 
salmon  on  the  window-ledge,  when  the  bottomless 
silence  of  that  forgotten  place  was  broken.  And 
it  was  broken  by  three  heavy  blows  of  a  stick 
delivered  upon  the  door. 

Tumbull  looked  up  in  the  act  of  opening  a  tin 
and  stared  silently  at  his  companion.  Maclan's 
long,  lean  mouth  had  shut  hard. 

"  Who  the  devil  can  that  be  ?  "  said  Tumbull. 

"  God  knows,"  said  the  other.  "  It  might  be 
God." 

Again  the  sound  of  the  wooden  stick  rever- 
berated on  the  wooden  door.  It  was  a  curious 
sound,  and  on  consideration  did  not  resemble  the 
ordinary  effects  of  knocking  on  a  door  for  ad- 
mittance. It  was  rather  as  if  the  point  of  a  stick 
were  plunged  again  and  again  at  the  panels  in  an 
absurd  attempt  to  make  a  hole  in  them. 

A  wild  look  sprang  into  Maclan's  eyes  and  he 
got  up  half  stupidly,  with  a  kind  of  stagger,  put 
his  hand  out  and  caught  one  of  the  swords.  "  Let 
us  fight  at  once,"  he  cried,  "  it  is  the  end  of  the 
world." 

"  You're   overdone,   Maclan,"    said   Turnbull, 


no  THE  BALL  AND  THE  CROSS 

putting  him  on  one  side.  "  It's  only  some  one 
playing  the  goat.     Let  me  open  the  door." 

But  he  also  picked  up  a  sword  as  he  stepped  to 
open  it. 

He  paused  one  moment  with  his  hand  on  the 
handle  and  then  flung  the  door  open.  Almost  as 
he  did  so  the  ferrule  of  an  ordinary  bamboo  cane 
came  at  his  eyes,  so  that  he  had  actually  to  parry 
it  with  the  naked  weapon  in  his  hands.  As  the 
two  touched,  the  point  of  the  stick  was  dropped 
very  abruptly,  and  the  man  with  the  stick  stepped 
hurriedly  back. 

Against  the  heraldic  background  of  sprawling 
crimson  and  gold  offered  him  by  the  expiring  sun- 
set, the  figure  of  the  man  with  the  stick  showed  at 
first  merely  black  and  fantastic.  He  was  a  small 
man  with  two  wisps  of  long  hair  that  curled  up 
on  each  side,  and  seen  in  silhouette,  looked  like 
horns.  He  had  a  bow  tie  so  big  that  the  two  ends 
showed  on  each  side  of  his  neck  like  unnatural 
stunted  wings.  He  had  his  long  black  cane  still 
tilted  in  his  hand  like  a  fencing  foil  and  half 
presented  at  the  open  door.  His  large  straw 
hat  had  fallen  behind  him  as  he  leapt  back- 
wards. 

"  With  reference  to  your  suggestion,  Maclan," 


THE    OTHER    PHILOSOPHER      iii 

said  Tumbull,  placidly,  "  I  think  it  looks  more  like 
the  Devil." 

"  Who  on  earth  are  you  ?  "  cried  the  stranger 
in  a  high  shrill  voice,  brandishing  his  cane 
defensively. 

"  Let  me  see,"  said  Turnbull,  looking  round 
to  Maclan  with  the  same  blandness.  "  Who 
are  we?  " 

"  Come  out,"  screamed  the  little  man  with  the 
stick. 

*'  Certainly,"  said  Turnbull,  and  went  outside 
with  the  sword,  Maclan  following. 

Seen  more  fully,  with  the  evening  light  on  his 
face,  the  strange  man  looked  a  little  less  like  a 
goblin.  He  wore  a  square  pale-grey  jacket  suit, 
on  which  the  grey  butterfly  tie  was  the  only  indis- 
putable touch  of  affectation.  Against  the  great 
sunset  his  figure  had  looked  merely  small :  seen  in 
a  more  equal  light  it  looked  tolerably  compact  and 
shapely.  His  reddish-brown  hair,  combed  into 
two  great  curls,  looked  like  the  long,  slow  curling 
hair  of  the  women  in  some  pre-Raphaelite  pic- 
tures. But  within  this  feminine  frame  of  hair  his 
face  was  unexpectedly  impudent,  like  a  monkey's. 

"What  are  you  doing  here?"  he  said,  in  a 
sharp  small  voice. 


112     THE    BALL    AND    THE    CROSS 

"  Well,"  said  Maclan,  in  his  grave  childish 
way,  "  what  are  yon,  doing  here  ?  " 

"  I,"  said  the  man,  indignantly,  "  I'm  in  my 
own  garden." 

"  Oh,"  said  Maclan,  simply,  "  I  apologise." 

Turnbull  was  coolly  curling  his  red  mous- 
tache, and  the  stranger  stared  from  one  to  the 
other,  temporarily  stunned  by  their  innocent  as- 
surance. 

"  But,  may  I  ask,"  he  said  at  last,  "  what  the 
devil  you  are  doing  in  my  summer-house?  " 

"  Certainly,"  said  Maclan.  "  We  were  just 
going  to  fight." 

"  To  fight !  "  repeated  the  man. 

"  We  had  better  tell  this  gentleman  the  whole 
business,"  broke  in  Turnbull.  Then  turning  to 
the  stranger  he  said  firmly,  "  I  am  sorr}%  sir,  but 
we  have  something  to  do  that  must  be  done.  And 
I  may  as  well  tell  you  at  the  beginning  and  to 
avoid  waste  of  time  or  language,  that  we  cannot 
admit  any  interference." 

"  We  were  just  going  to  take  some  slight  re- 
freshment when  you  interrupted  us  .  .  ." 

The  little  man  had  a  dawning  expression  of 
und'erstanding  and  stooped  and  picked  up  the  un- 
used bottle  of  wine,  eyeing  it  curiously. 


THE    OTHER    PHILOSOPHER      113 

Turnbull  continued : — 

"  But  that  refreshment  was  preparatory  to 
something  which  I  fear  you  will  find  less  com- 
prehensible, but  on  which  our  minds  are  entirely 
fixed,  sir.  We  are  forced  to  fight  a  duel.  We  are 
forced  by  honour  and  an  internal  intellectual  need. 
Do  not,  for  your  own  sake,  attempt  to  stop  us.  I 
know  all  the  excellent  and  ethical  things  that  you 
will  want  to  say  to  us.  I  know  all  about  the  es- 
sential requirements  of  civil  order :  I  have  written 
leading  articles  about  them  all  my  life.  I  know 
all  about  the  sacredness  of  human  life;  I  have 
bored  all  my  friends  with  it.  Try  and  understand 
our  position.  This  man  and  I  are  alone  in  the 
modern  world  in  that  we  think  that  God  is  essen- 
tially important.  I  think  He  does  not  exist ;  that 
is  where  the  importance  comes  in  for  me.  But 
this  man  thinks  that  He  does  exist,  and  thinking 
that  very  properly  thinks  Him  more  important 
than  anything  else.  Now  we  wish  to  make  a 
great  demonstration  and  assertion — something 
that  will  set  the  world  on  fire  like  the  first  Chris- 
tian persecutions.  H  you  like,  we  are  attempting 
a  mutual  martyrdom.  The  papers  have  posted  up 
every  town  against  us.  Scotland  Yard  has  forti- 
fied every  police  station  with  our  enemies ;  we  are 


114    THE    BALL    AND    THE    CROSS 

driven  therefore  to  the  edge  of  a  lonely  lane,  and 
indirectly  to  taking  liberties  with  your  summer- 
house  in  order  to  arrange  our  ..." 

"  Stop !  "  roared  the  little  man  in  the  butterfly 
necktie.  "  Put  me  out  of  my  intellectual  misery. 
Are  you  really  the  two  tomfools  I  have  read  of  in 
all  the  papers?  Are  you  the  two  people  who 
wanted  to  spit  each  other  in  the  Police  Court? 
Are  you  ?    Are  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Maclan,  "  it  began  in  a  Police 
Court." 

The  little  man  slung  the  bottle  of  wine  twenty 
yards  away  like  a  stone. 

"  Come  up  to  my  place,"  he  said.  "  I've  got 
better  stuff  than  that.  I've  got  the  best  Beaune 
within  fifty  miles  of  here.  Come  up.  You're  the 
very  men  I  wanted  to  see." 

Even  Turnbull,  with  his  typical  invulnerability, 
was  a  little  taken  aback  by  this  boisterous  and 
almost  brutal  hospitality. 

"  Why  ...  sir  .  .  ."  he  began. 

"  Come  up !  Come  in !  "  howled  the  little  man, 
dancing  with  delight.  "  I'll  give  you  a  dinner. 
I'll  give  you  a  bed !  I'll  give  you  a  green  smooth 
lawn  and  your  choice  of  swords  and  pistols. 
Why,  you  fools,  I  adore  fighting!     It's  the  only 


THE    OTHER    PHILOSOPHER      115 

good  thing  in  God's  world !  I've  walked  about 
these  damned  fields  and  longed  to  see  some- 
body cut  up  and  killed  and  the  blood  running. 
Ha!    Ha!" 

And  he  made  sudden  lunges  with  his  stick  at 
the  trunk  of  a  neighbouring  tree  so  that  the  ferrule 
made  fierce  prints  and  punctures  in  the  bark. 

"  Excuse  me/'  said  Maclan  suddenly  with  the 
wide-eyed  curiosity  of  a  child,  "  excuse  me, 
but  .  .  ." 

"  Well  ?  "  said  the  small  fighter,  brandishing 
his  wooden  weapon. 

"  Excuse  me,"  repeated  Maclan,  "  but  was  that 
what  you  were  doing  at  the  door?  " 

The  little  man  stared  an  instant  and  then  said  *. 
"  Yes,"  and  Turnbull  broke  into  a  guffaw. 

"  Come  on !  "  cried  the  little  man,  tucking  his 
stick  under  his  arm  and  taking  quite  suddenly  to 
his  heels.  ''  Come  on !  Confound  me,  I'll  see 
both  of  you  eat  and  then  I'll  see  one  of  you  die. 
Lord  bless  me,  the  gods  must  exist  after  all — they 
have  sent  me  one  of  my  day-dreams !  Lord !  A 
duel!" 

He  had  gone  flying  along  a  winding  path  be- 
tween the  borders  of  the  kitchen  garden,  and  in 
the  increasing  twilight  he  was  as  hard  to  follow 


ii6     THE    BALL    AND    THE    CROSS 

as  a  flying  hare.  But  at  length  the  path  after 
many  twists  betrayed  its  purpose  and  led  abruptly 
up  two  or  three  steps  to  the  door  of  a  tiny  but  very 
clean  cottage.  There  was  nothing  about  the  out- 
side to  distinguish  it  from  other  cottages,  ex- 
cept indeed  its  ominous  cleanliness  and  one  thing 
that  was  out  of  all  the  custom  and  tradition  of 
all  cottages  under  the  sun.  In  the  middle  of  the 
little  garden  among  the  stocks  and  marigolds 
there  surged  up  in  shapeless  stone  a  South  Sea 
Island  idol.  There  was  something  gross  and  even 
evil  in  that  eyeless  and  alien  god  among  the  most 
innocent  of  the  English  flowers. 

"  Come  in !  "  cried  the  creature  again.  "  Come 
in !  it's  better  inside !  " 

Whether  or  no  it  was  better  inside  it  was  at 
least  a  surprise.  The  moment  the  two  duellists 
had  pushed  open  the  door  of  that  inoffensive, 
whitewashed  cottage  they  found  that  its  interior 
was  lined  with  fiery  gold.  It  was  like  stepping 
into  a  chamber  in  the  Arabian  Nights.  The  door 
that  closed  behind  them  shut  out  England  and  all 
the  energies  of  the  West.  The  ornaments  that 
shone  and  shimmered  on  every  side  of  them  were 
subtly  mixed  from  many  periods  and  lands,  but 
were  all  oriental.     Cruel  Assyrian  bas-reliefs  ran 


THE    OTHER    PHILOSOPHER      117 

along  the  sides  of  the  passage ;  cruel  Turkish 
swords  and  daggers  glinted  above  and  below 
them;  the  two  were  separated  by  ages  and  fallen 
civilisations.  Yet  they  seemed  to  sympathise  since 
they  were  both  harmonious  and  both  merciless. 
The  house  seemed  to  consist  of  chamber  within 
chamber  and  created  that  impression  as  of  a  dream 
which  belongs  also  to  the  Arabian  Nights  them- 
selves. The  innermost  room  of  all  was  like  the 
inside  of  a  jewel.  The  little  man  who  owned  it 
all  threw  himself  on  a  heap  of  scarlet  and  golden 
cushions  and  struck  his  hands  together.  A  negro 
in  a  white  robe  and  turban  appeared  suddenly  and 
silently  behind  them. 

"  Selim,"  said  the  host,  "  these  two  gentlemen 
are  staying  with  me  to-night.  Send  up  the  very 
best  wine  and  dinner  at  once.  And  Selim,  one 
of  these  gentlemen  will  probably  die  to-morrow. 
Make  arrangements,  please." 

The  negro  bowed  and  withdrew. 

Evan  Maclan  came  out  the  next  morning  into 
the  little  garden  to  a  fresh  silver  day,  his  long  face 
looking  more  austere  than  ever  in  that  cold  light, 
his  eyelids  a  little  heavy.  He  carried  one  of  the 
swords.  Turnbull  was  in  the  little  house  behind 
him,  demolishing  the  end  of  an  early  breakfast 


ii8    THE    BALL    AND    THE    CROSS 

and  humming  a  tune  to  himself,  which  could  be 
heard  through  the  open  window.  A  moment  or 
two  later  he  leapt  to  his  feet  and  came  out  into  the 
sunlight,  still  munching  toast,  his  own  sword 
stuck  under  his  arm  like  a  walking-stick. 

Their  eccentric  host  had  vanished  from  sight, 
with  a  polite  gesture,  some  twenty  minutes  before. 
They  imagined  him  to  be  occupied  on  some  con- 
cerns in  the  interior  of  the  house,  and  they  waited 
for  his  emergence,  stamping  the  garden  in  silence 
— the  garden  of  tall,  fresh  country  flowers,  in 
the  midst  of  which  the  monstrous  South  Sea 
idol  lifted  itself  as  abruptly  as  the  prow  of 
a  ship  riding  on  a  sea  of  red  and  white  and 
gold. 

It  was  with  a  start,  therefore,  that  they  came 
upon  the  man  himself  already  in  the  garden.  They 
were  all  the  more  startled  because  of  the  still  pos- 
ture in  which  they  found  him.  He  was  on  his 
knees  in  front  of  the  stone  idol,  rigid  and  motion- 
less, like  a  saint  in  a  trance  or  ecstasy.  Yet  when 
Turnbull's  tread  broke  a  twig,  he  was  on  his  feet 
in  a  flash. 

"  Excuse  me,"  he  said  with  an  irradiation  of 
smiles,  but  yet  with  a  kind  of  bewilderment.  "  So 
sorry  .  .  .  family     prayers  ...  old     fashioned 


THE    OTHER    PHILOSOPHER      119 

.  .  .  mother's  knee.  Let  us  go  on  to  the  lawn 
behind." 

And  he  ducked  rapidly  round  the  statue  to  an 
open  space  of  grass  on  the  other  side  of  it. 

"  This  will  do  us  best,  Mr.  Maclan,"  said  he. 
Then  he  made  a  gesture  toward  the  heavy  stone 
figure  on  the  pedestal  which  had  now  its  blank 
and  shapeless  back  turned  toward  them.  "  Don't 
you  be  afraid,"  he  added,  "  he  can  still  see  us." 

Maclan  turned  his  blue,  blinking  eyes,  which 
seemed  still  misty  with  sleep  (or  sleeplessness), 
towards  the  idol,  but  his  brows  drew  together. 

The  little  man  with  the  long  hair  also  had  his 
eyes  on  the  back  view  of  the  god.  His  eyes  were 
at  once  liquid  and  burning,  and  he  rubbed  his 
hands  slowly  against  each  other. 

"  Do  you  know,"  he  said,  "  I  think  he  can  see 
us  better  this  way.  I  often  think  that  this  blank 
thing  is  his  real  face,  watching,  though  it  cannot 
be  watched.  He !  he !  Yes,  I  think  he  looks  nice 
from  behind.  He  looks  more  cruel  from  behind, 
don't  you  think  ?  " 

"  What  the  devil  is  the  thing?  "  asked  Turnbull 
gruffly. 

"  It  is  the  only  Thing  there  is,"  answered  the 
other.     *'  It  is  Force." 


I20    THE    BALL    AND    THE    CROSS 

"  Oh !  "  said  Turnbull  shortly. 

"  Yes,  my  friends,"  said  the  Httle  man,  with  an 
animated  countenance,  fluttering  his  fingers  in  the 
air,  "  it  was  no  chance  that  led  you  to  this  gar- 
den; surely  it  was  the  caprice  of  some  old  god, 
some  happy,  pitiless  god.  Perhaps  it  was  his  will, 
for  he  loves  blood;  and  on  that  stone  in  front 
of  him  men  have  been  butchered  by  hundreds  in 
the  fierce,  feasting  islands  of  the  South.  In  this 
cursed,  craven  place  I  have  not  been  permitted  to 
kill  men  on  his  altar.  Only  rabbits  and  cats, 
sometimes." 

In  the  stillness  Maclan  made  a  sudden  move- 
ment, unmeaning  apparently,  and  then  remained 
rigid. 

"  But  to-day,  to-day,"  continued  the  small  man 
in  a  shrill  voice.  "  To-day  his  hour  is  come. 
To-day  his  will  is  done  on  earth  as  it  is  in 
heaven.  Men,  men,  men  will  bleed  before  him 
to-day."  And  he  bit  his  forefinger  in  a  kind  of 
fever. 

Still,  the  two  duellists  stood  with  their  swords 
as  heavily  as  statues,  and  the  silence  seemed  to 
cool  the  eccentric  and  call  him  back  to  more  ra- 
tional speech. 

**  Perhaps  I  express  myself  a  little  too  lyrically," 


THE    OTHER    PHILOSOPHER      121 

he  said  with  an  amicable  abruptness.  "  My  phil- 
osophy has  its  higher  ecstasies,  but  perhaps  you 
are  hardly  worked  up  to  them  yet.  Let  us  confine 
ourselves  to  the  unquestioned.  You  have  found 
your  way,  gentlemen,  by  a  beautiful  accident,  to 
the  house  of  the  only  man  in  England  (probably) 
who  will  favour  and  encourage  your  most  reason- 
able project.  From  Cornwall  to  Cape  Wrath  this 
country  is  one  horrible,  solid  block  of  humanita- 
rianism.  You  will  find  men  who  will  defend  this 
or  that  war  in  a  distant  continent.  They  will  de- 
fend it  on  the  contemptible  ground  of  commerce 
or  the  more  contemptibly  ground  of  social  good. 
But  do  not  fancy  that  you  will  find  one  other  per- 
son who  will  comprehend  a  strong  man  taking 
the  sword  in  his  hand  and  wiping  out  his  enemy. 
My  name  is  Wimpey,  Morrice  Wimpey.  I  had 
a  Fellowship  at  Magdalen.  But  I  assure  you  I 
had  to  drop  it,  owing  to  my  having  said  some- 
thing in  a  public  lecture  infringing  the  popular 
prejudice  against  those  great  gentlemen,  the  as- 
sassins of  the  Italian  Renascence.  They  let  me 
say  it  at  dinner  and  so  on,  and  seemed  to  like  it. 
But  in  a  public  lecture  ...  so  inconsistent. 
Well,  as  I  say,  here  is  your  only  refuge  and  tem- 
ple of  honour.     Here  you  can  fall  back  on  that 


122    THE    BALL   AND    THE    CROSS 

naked  and  awful  arbitration  which  is  the  only 
thing  that  balances  the  stars — a  still,  continuous 
violence.  Vcb  Victis!  Down,  down,  down  with 
the  defeated!  Victory  is  the  only  ultimate  fact. 
Carthage  was  destroyed,  the  Red  Indians  are 
being  exterminated :  that  is  the  single  certain- 
ty. In  an  hour  from  now  that  sun  will  still  be 
shining  and  that  grass  growing,  and  one  of 
you  will  be  conquered ;  one  of  you  will  be  the 
conqueror.  When  it  has  been  done,  nothing 
will  alter  it.  Heroes,  I  give  you  the  hospital- 
ity fit  for  heroes.  And  I  salute  the  survivor. 
Fallon!" 

The  two  men  took  their  swords.  Then  Maclan 
said  steadily :  "  Mr.  Turnbull,  lend  me  your  sword 
a  moment." 

Turnbull,  with  a  questioning  glance,  handed 
him  the  weapon.  Maclan  took  the  second  sword 
in  his  left  hand  and,  with  a  violent  gesture,  hurled 
it  at  the  feet  of  little  Mr.  Wimpey. 

"Fight!"  he  said  in  a  loud,  harsh  voice. 
"  Fight  me  now !  " 

Wimpey  took  a  step  backward,  and  bewildered 
words  bubbled  on  his  lips. 

"  Pick  up  that  sword  and  fight  me,"  repeated 
Maclan,  with  brows  as  black  as  thunder. 


THE    OTHER    PHILOSOPHER      123 

The  little  man  turned  to  Turnbull  with  a  ges- 
ture, demanding  judgment  or  protection. 

"  Really,  sir,"  he  began,  "  this  gentleman 
confuses  .  .  ." 

"  You  stinking  little  coward,"  roared  Turnbull, 
suddenly  releasing  his  wrath.  "  Fight,  if  you're 
so  fond  of  fighting!  Fight,  if  you're  so  fond  of 
all  that  filthy  philosophy!  If  winning  is  every- 
thing, go  in  and  win !  If  the  weak  must  go  to 
the  wall,  go  to  the  wall !  Fight,  you  rat !  Fight, 
of  if  you  won't  fight — run !  " 

And  he  ran  at  Wimpey,  with  blazing  eyes. 

Wimpey  staggered  back  a  few  paces  like  a  man 
struggling  with  his  own  limbs.  Then  he  felt  the 
furious  Scotchman  coming  at  him  like  an  express- 
train,  doubling  his  size  every  second,  with  eyes 
as  big  as  windows  and  a  sword  as  bright  as  the 
sun.  Something  broke  inside  him,  and  he  found 
himself  running  away,  tumbling  over  his  own  feet 
in  terror,  and  crying  out  as  he  ran. 

"  Chase  him !  "  shouted  Turnbull  as  Maclan 
snatched  up  the  sword  and  joined  in  the  scamper. 
*'  Chase  him  over  a  county !  Chase  him  into  the 
sea !     Shoo !     Shoo !     Shoo !  " 

The  little  man  plunged  like  a  rabbit  among  the 
tall  flowers,  the  two  duellists  after  him.     Turn- 


124    THE    BALL    AND    THE    CROSS 

bull  kept  at  his  tail  with  savage  ecstasy,  still  shoo- 
ing him  like  a  cat.  But  Maclan,  as  he  ran  past 
the  South  Sea  idol,  paused  an  instant  to  spring 
upon  its  pedestal.  For  five  seconds  he  strained 
against  the  inert  mass.  Then  it  stirred ;  and  he 
sent  it  over  with  a  great  crash  among  the  flowers, 
that  engulfed  it  altogether.  Then  he  went  bound- 
ing after  the  runaway. 

In  the  energy  of  his  alarm  the  ex-Fellow  of 
Magdalen  managed  to  leap  the  paling  of  his 
garden.  The  two  pursuers  went  over  it  after 
him  like  flying  birds.  He  fled  frantically  down 
a  long  lane  with  his  two  terrors  in  his  trail  till 
he  came  to  a  gap  in  the  hedge  and  went  across 
a  steep  meadow  like  the  wind.  The  two  Scotch- 
men, as  they  ran,  kept  up  a  cheery  bellowing  and 
waved  their  swords.  Up  three  slanting  meadows, 
down  four  slanting  meadows  on  the  other  side, 
across  another  road,  across  a  heath  of  snapping 
bracken,  through  a  wood,  across  another  road,  and 
to  the  brink  of  a  big  pool,  they  pursued  the  flying 
philosopher.  But  when  he  came  to  the  pool  his 
pace  was  so  precipitate  that  he  could  not  stop  it. 
and  with  a  kind  of  lurching  stagger,  he  fell  splash 
into  the  greasy  water.  Getting  dripping  to  his 
feet,  with  the  water  up  to  his  knees,  the  worship- 


THE    OTHER    PHILOSOPHER      125 

per  of  force  and  victory  waded  disconsolately  to 
the  other  side  and  drew  himself  on  to  the  bank. 
And  Turnbull  sat  down  on  the  grass  and  went  off 
into  reverberations  of  laughter.  A  second  after- 
ward the  most  extraordinary  grimaces  were  seen 
to  distort  the  stiff  face  of  Maclan,  and  unholy 
sounds  came  from  within.  He  had  never  prac- 
tised laughing,  and  it  hurt  him  very  much. 


CHAPTER    VII 

THE  VILLAGE  OF   GRASSLEY-IN-THE-HOLE 

At  about  half-past  one,  under  a  strong-  blue 
sky,  Turnbull  got  up  out  of  the  grass  and  fern 
in  which  he  had  been  lying,  and  his  still  intermit- 
tent laughter  ended  in  a  kind  of  yawn. 

"  I'm  hungry,"  he  said  shortly.     "  Are  you  ?  " 

"  I  have  not  noticed,"  answered  Maclan. 
"  What  are  you  going  to  do?  " 

"  There's  a  village  down  the  road,  past  the 
pool,"  answered  Turnbull.  "  I  can  see  it  from 
here.  I  can  see  the  whitewashed  walls  of  some 
cottages  and  a  kind  of  corner  of  the  church.  How 
jolly  it  all  looks.  It  looks  so — I  don't  know  what 
the  word  is — so  sensible.  Don't  fancy  I'm  under 
any  illusions  about  Arcadian  virtue  and  the  inno- 
cent villagers.  Men  make  beasts  of  themselves 
there  with  drink,  but  they  don't  deliberately  make 
devils  of  themselves  with  mere  talking.  They 
kill  wild  animals  in  the  wild  woods,  but  they  don't 
kill  cats  to  the  God  of  Victory.  They  don't — " 
He  broke  off  and  suddenly  spat  on  the  ground. 
126 


GRASSLEY-IN-THE-HOLE  127 

"  Excuse  me,"  he  said ;  "  it  was  ceremonial. 
One  has  to  get  the  taste  out  of  one's  mouth." 

**The  taste  of  what?"  asked  Maclan. 

"  I  don't  know  the  exact  name  for  it,"  replied 
Turnbull.  "  Perhaps  it  is  the  South  Sea  Islands, 
or  it  may  be  Magdalen  College." 

There  was  a  long  pause,  and  Maclan  also  lifted 
his  large  limbs  off  the  ground — his  eyes  particu- 
larly dreamy. 

"  I  know  what  you  mean,  Turnbull,"  he  said, 
**  but  ...  I  always  thought  you  people  agreed 
with  all  that." 

"  Agreed  with  all  what  ?  "  asked  the  other. 

"  With  all  that  about  doing  as  one  likes,  and 
the  individual,  and  Nature  loving  the  strongest, 
and  all  the  things  which  that  cockroach  talked 
about." 

Turnbull's  big  blue-gray  eyes  stood  open  with 
a  grave  astonishment. 

"  Do  you  really  mean  to  say,  Maclan,"  he  said, 
**  that  you  fancied  that  we,  the  Free-thinkers,  that 
Bradlaugh,  or  Holyoake,  or  Ingersoll,  believe  all 
that  dirty,  immoral  mysticism  about  Nature? 
Damn  Nature !  " 

"  I  supposed  you  did,"  said  Maclan  calmly. 
"  It  seems  to  me  your  most  conclusive  position." 


128    THE    BALL   AND    THE    CROSS 

"  And  you  mean  to  tell  me,"  rejoined  the  other, 
"  that  you  broke  my  window,  and  challenged  me 
to  mortal  combat,  and  tied  a  tradesman  up  with 
ropes,  and  chased  an  Oxford  Fellow  across  five 
meadows — all  under  the  impression  that  I  am 
such  an  illiterate  idiot  as  to  believe  in  Nature  I  " 

"  I  supposed  you  did,"  repeated  Maclan  with 
his  usual  mildness ;  "  but  I  admit  that  I  know  little 
of  the  details  of  your  belief — or  disbelief." 

Turnbull  swung  round  quite  suddenly,  and  set 
off  toward  the  village. 

"  Come  along,"  he  cried.  "  Come  down  to  the 
village.  Come  down  to  the  nearest  decent  inhab- 
itable pub.     This  is  a  case  for  beer." 

"  I  do  not  quite  follow  you,"  said  the  High- 
lander. 

"  Yes,  you  do,"  answered  Turnbull.  "  You 
follow  me  slap  into  the  inn-parlour.  I  repeat, 
this  is  a  case  for  beer.  We  must  have  the  whole 
of  this  matter  out  thoroughly  before  we  go  a  step 
farther.  Do  you  know  that  an  idea  has  just 
struck  me  of  great  simplicity  and  of  some  co- 
gency. Do  not  by  any  means  let  us  drop  our 
intentions  of  settling  our  differences  with  two 
steel  swords.  But  do  you  not  think  that  with 
two  pewter  pots  we  might  do  what  we  really  have 


GRASSLEY-IN-THE-HOLE         129 

never  thought  of  doing  yet — discover  what  our 
difference  is?  " 

"  It  never  occurred  to  me  before,"  answered 
Maclan  with  tranquilHty.  "  It  is  a  good  sugges- 
tion." 

And  they  set  out  at  an  easy  swing  down  the 
steep  road  to  the  village  of  Grassley-in-the-Hole, 

Grassley-in-the-Hole  was  a  rude  parallelogram 
of  buildings,  with  two  thoroughfares  which  might 
have  been  called  two  high  streets  if  it  had  been 
possible  to  call  them  streets.  One  of  these  ways 
was  higher  on  the  slope  than  the  other,  the  whole 
parallelogram  lying  aslant,  so  to  speak,  on  the 
side  of  the  hill.  The  upper  of  these  two  roads 
was  decorated  with  a  big  public-house,  a  butcher's 
shop,  a  small  public-house,  a  sweetstuff  shop,  a 
very  small  public-house,  and  an  illegible  sign-post. 
The  lower  of  the  two  roads  boasted  a  horse-pond, 
a  post-office,  a  gentleman's  garden  with  very  high 
hedges,  a  microscopically  small  public-house,  and 
two  cottages.  Where  all  the  people  lived  who 
supported  all  the  public-houses  was  in  this,  as  in 
many  other  English  villages,  a  silent  and  smiling 
mystery.  The  church  lay  a  little  above  and  beyond 
the  village,  with  a  square  gray  tower  dominating 
it  decisively. 


I30    THE    BALL    AND    THE    CROSS 

But  even  the  church  was  scarcely  so  central  and 
solemn  an  institution  as  the  large  public-house, 
the  Valencourt  Arms.  It  was  named  after  some 
splendid  family  that  had  long  gone  bankrupt, 
and  whose  seat  was  occupied  by  a  man  who  had 
invented  an  hygienic  bootjack;  but  the  unfathom- 
able sentimentalism  of  the  English  people  insisted 
on  regarding  the  Inn,  the  seat  and  the  sitter  in  it, 
as  alike  parts  of  a  pure  and  marmoreal  antiquity. 
And  in  the  Valencourt  Arms  festivity  itself  had 
some  solemnity  and  decorum ;  and  beer  was  drunk 
with  reverence,  as  it  ought  to  be.  Into  the  prin- 
cipal parlour  of  this  place  entered  two  strangers, 
who  found  themselves,  as  is  always  the  case  in 
such  hostels,  the  object,  not  of  fluttered  curiosity 
or  pert  inquiry,  but  of  steady,  ceaseless,  devour- 
ing ocular  study.  They  had  long  coats  down  to 
their  heels,  and  carried  under  each  coat  something 
that  looked  like  a  stick.  One  was  tall  and  dark, 
the  other  short  and  red-haired.  They  ordered  a 
pot  of  ale  each. 

"  Maclan,"  said  Turnbull,  lifting  his  tankard, 
"  the  fool  who  wanted  us  to  be  friends  made  us 
want  to  go  on  fighting.  It  is  only  natural  that 
the  fool  who  wanted  us  to  fight  should  make  us 
friendly.     Maclan,  your  health !  " 


GRASSLEY-IN-THE-HOLE  131 

Dusk  was  already  dropping,  the  rustics  in  the 
tavern  were  already  lurching  and  lumbering  out 
of  it  by  twos  and  threes,  crying  clamorous 
good-nights  to  a  solitary  old  toper  that  remained, 
before  Maclan  and  Turnbull  had  reached  the 
really  important  part  of  their  discussion. 

Maclan  wore  an  expression  of  sad  bewilder- 
ment not  uncommon  with  him.  "  I  am  to  un- 
derstand, then,"  he  said,  "  that  you  don't  believe 
in  nature." 

"  You  may  say  so  in  a  very  special  and  em- 
phatic sense/'  said  Turnbull.  "  I  do  not  believe 
in  nature,  just  as  I  do  not  believe  in  Odin.  She 
is  a  myth.  It  is  not  merely  that  I  do  not  be- 
lieve that  nature  can  guide  us.  It  is  that  I  do 
not  believe  that  nature  exists." 

"  Exists?  "  said  Maclan  in  his  monotonous 
way,  settling  his  pewter-pot  on  the  table. 

"  Yes,  in  a  real  sense  nature  does  not  exist. 
I  mean  that  nobody  can  discover  what  the  origi- 
nal nature  of  things  would  have  been  if  things 
had  not  interfered  with  it.  The  first  blade  of 
grass  began  to  tear  up  the  earth  and  eat  it;  it 
was  interfering  with  nature,  if  there  is  any  na- 
ture. The  first  wild  ox  began  to  tear  up  the 
grass  and  eat  it;  he  was  interfering  with  nature. 


132    THE    BALL    AND    THE    CROSS 

if  there  is  any  nature.  In  the  same  way,"  con- 
tinued Turnbull,  "  the  human  when  it  asserts  its 
dominance  over  nature  is  just  as  natural  as  the 
thing  which  it  destroys." 

"  And  in  the  same  way,"  said  Maclan  almost 
dreamily,  "  the  superhuman,  the  supernatural  is 
just  as  natural  as  the  nature  which  it  de- 
stroys." 

Turnbull  took  his  head  out  of  his  pewter-pot 
in  some  anger. 

"  The  supernatural,  of  course,"  he  said,  "  is 
quite  another  thing;  the  case  of  the  supernatu- 
ral is  simple.    The  supernatural  does  not  exist." 

"  Quite  so,"  said  Maclan  in  a  rather  dull 
voice;  "  you  said  the  same  about  the  natural. 
If  the  natural  does  not  exist  the  supernatural 
obviously  can't."  And  he  yawned  a  little  over 
his  ale. 

Turnbull  turned  for  some  reason  a  little  red 
and  remarked  quickly,  "  That  may  be  jolly  clever, 
for  all  I  know.  But  every  one  does  know  that 
there  is  a  division  between  the  things  that  as  a 
matter  of  fact  do  commonly  happen  and  the 
things  that  don't.  Things  that  break  the  evi- 
dent laws  of  nature " 

"  Which    does    not    exist,"    put    in    Maclan 


GRASSLEY-IN-THE-HOLE         133 

sleepily.  Turnbull  struck  the  table  with  a  sud- 
den hand. 

"  Good  Lord  in  heaven!  "  he  cried 

"  Who  does  not  exist,"  murmured  Maclan. 

"Good  Lord  in  heaven!"  thundered  Turn- 
bull,  without  regarding  the  interruption.  "  Do 
you  really  mean  to  sit  there  and  say  that  you, 
like  anybody  else,  would  not  recognise  the  dif- 
ference between  a  natural  occurrence  and  a  su- 
pernatural one — if  there  could  be  such  a  thing? 
If  I  flew  up  to  the  ceiling " 

"  You  would  bump  your  head  badly,"  cried 
Maclan,  suddenly  starting  up.  "  One  can't  talk 
of  this  kind  of  thing  under  a  ceiling  at  all.  Come 
outside !    Come  outside  and  ascend  into  heaven !  '* 

He  burst  the  door  open  on  a  blue  abyss  ot 
evening  and  they  stepped  out  into  it :  it  was  sud- 
denly and  strangely  cool. 

"  Turnbull,"  said  Maclan,  "  you  have  said 
some  things  so  true  and  some  so  false  that  I 
want  to  talk;  and  I  will  try  to  talk  so  that  you 
understand.  For  at  present  you  do  not  under- 
stand at  all.  We  don't  seem  to  mean  the  same 
things  by  the  same  words." 

He  stood  silent  for  a  second  or  two  and  then 
resumed. 


134    THE    BALL   AND    THE    CROSS 

"  A  minute  or  two  ago  I  caught  you  out  in 
a  real  contradiction.  At  that  moment  logically 
I  was  right.  And  at  that  moment  I  knew  I  was 
wrong.  Yes,  there  is  a  real  difference  between 
the  natural  and  the  supernatural :  if  you  flew  up 
into  that  blue  sky  this  instant,  I  should  think 
that  you  were  moved  by  God — or  the  devil.  But 
if  you  want  to  know  what  I  really  think  .  .  . 
I  must  explain." 

He  stopped  again,  abstractedly  boring  the 
point  of  his  sword  into  the  earth,  and  went  on : 

"  I  was  born  and  bred  and  taught  in  a  com- 
plete universe.  The  supernatural  was  not  nat- 
ural, but  it  was  perfectly  reasonable.  Nay,  the 
supernatural  to  me  is  more  reasonable  than  the 
natural;  for  the  supernatural  is  a  direct  message 
from  God,  who  is  reason.  I  was  taught  that 
some  things  are  natural  and  some  things  divine. 
Imean  that  some  things  are  mechanical  and  some 
things  divine.  But  there  is  the  great  difficulty, 
Turnbull.  The  great  difficulty  is  that,  according 
to  my  teaching,  you  are  divine." 

"Me!  Divine?"  said  Turnbull  truculently, 
"  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"That  is  just  the  difficulty,"  continued  Mac- 
Ian  thoughtfully.     "  I  was  told  that  there  was  a 


GRASSLEY-IN-THE-HOLE  135 

difference  between  the  grass  and  a  man's  will ; 
and  the  difference  was  that  a  man's  will  was 
special  and  divine.  A  man's  free  will,  I  heard, 
was  supernatural." 

"Rubbish!"  said  Turnbull. 

"  Oh,"  said  Maclan  patiently,  "  then  if  a 
man's  free  will  isn't  supernatural,  why  do  your 
materialists  deny  that  it  exists?  " 

Turnbull  was  silent  for  a  moment.  Then  he 
began  to  speak,  but  Maclan  continued  with' the 
same  steady  voice  and  sad  eyes: 

"So  what  I  feel  is  this:  Here  is  the  great 
divine  creation  I  was  taught  to  believe  in.  I 
can  understand  your  disbelieving  in  it,  but  why 
disbelieve  in  a  part  of  it?  It  was  all  one  thing 
to  me.  God  had  authority  because  he  was  God. 
Man  had  authority  because  he  was  man.  You 
cannot  prove  that  God  is  better  than  a  man;  nor 
can  you  prove  that  a  man  is  better  than  a  horse. 
Why  permit  any  ordinary  thing?  Why  do  you 
let  a  horse  be  saddled?  " 

"  Some  modern  thinkers  disapprove  of  it," 
said  Turnbull  a  little  doubtfully. 

"I  know,"  said  Maclan  grimly;  "that  man 
who  talked  about  love,  for  instance." 

Turnbull  made  a  humorous  grimace;  then  he 


136    THE    BALL    AND    THE    CROSS 

said:  "  We  seem  to  be  talking  in  a  kind  of  short- 
hand ;  but  I  won't  pretend  not  to  understand  you. 
What  you  mean  is  this:  that  you  learnt  about  all 
your  saints  and  angels  at  the  same  time  as  you 
learnt  about  common  morality,  from  the  same 
people,  in  the  same  way.  And  you  mean  to  say 
that  if  one  may  be  disputed,  so  may  the  other. 
Well,  let  that  pass  for  the  moment.  But  let  me 
ask  you  a  question  in  turn.  Did  not  this  system 
of  yours,  which  you  swallowed  whole,  contain 
all  sorts  of  things  that  were  merely  local,  the 
respect  for  the  chief  of  your  clan,  or  such  things ; 
the  village  ghost,  the  family  feud,  or  what  not? 
Did  you  not  take  in  those  things,  too,  along  with 
your  theology  ?  " 

Maclan  stared  along  the  dim  village  road, 
down  which  the  last  straggler  from  the  inn  was 
trailing  his  way. 

"  What  you  say  is  not  unreasonable,"  he  said. 
"  But  it  is  not  quite  true.  The  distinction  be- 
tween the  chief  and  us  did  exist ;  but  it  was  never 
anything  like  the  distinction  between  the  human 
and  the  divine,  or  the  human  and  the  animal.  It 
v.as  more  like  the  distinction  between  one  ani- 
mal and  another.    But " 

"  Well?  "  said  Turnbull. 


GRASSLEY-IN-THE-HOLE         137 

Maclan  was  silent. 

"Go   on,"   repeated  Turnbull;   "what's  the 
matter  with  you?     What  are  you  staring  at?  " 

"I  am  staring,"  said  Maclan  at  last,  "at 
that  which  shall  judge  us  both." 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  Turnbull  in  a  tired  way,  "  I 
suppose  you  mean  God." 

"  No,  I  don't,"  said  Maclan,  shaking  his  head. 
"  I  mean  him." 

And  he  pointed  to  the  half-tipsy  yokel  who 
was  ploughing  down  the  road. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  asked  the  atheist. 

"  I  mean  him,"  repeated  Maclan  with  em- 
phasis. "  He  goes  out  in  the  early  dawn;  he  digs 
or  he  ploughs  a  field.  Then  he  comes  back  and 
drinks  ale,  and  then  he  sings  a  song.  All  your 
philosophies  and  political  systems  are  young 
compared  to  him.  All  your  hoary  cathedrals, 
yes,  even  the  Eternal  Church  on  earth  is  new 
compared  to  him.  The  most  mouldering  gods 
in  the  British  Museum  are  new  facts  beside 
him.  It  is  he  who  in  the  end  shall  judge  us 
all." 

And  Maclan  rose  to  his  feet  with  a  vague 
excitement. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  ?  " 


138    THE    BALL   AND    THE    CROSS 

"  I  am  going  to  ask  him,"  cried  Maclan, 
"  which  of  us  is  right." 

Turnbull  broke  into  a  kind  of  laugh.  "  Ask 
that  intoxicated  turnip-eater — "  he  began. 

"  Yes — which  of  us  is  right,"  cried  Maclan 
violently.  "  Oh,  you  have  long  words  and  I  have 
long  words;  and  I  talk  of  every  man  being  the 
image  of  God ;  and  you  talk  of  every  man  being  a 
citizen  and  enlightened  enough  to  govern.  But 
if  every  man  typifies  God,  there  is  God.  If  every 
man  is  an  enlightened  citizen,  there  is  your  en- 
lightened citizen.  The  first  man  one  meets  is 
always  man.     Let  us  catch  him  up." 

And  in  gigantic  strides  the  long,  lean  High- 
lander whirled  away  into  the  gray  twilight, 
Turnbull  following  with  a  good-humoured 
oath. 

The  track  of  the  rustic  was  easy  to  follow, 
even  in  the  faltering  dark;  for  he  was  enlivening 
his  wavering  walk  with  song.  It  was  an  inter- 
minable poem,  beginning  with  some  unspecified 
King  William,  who  (it  appeared)  lived  in  Lon- 
don town  and  who  after  the  second  rise  vanished 
rather  abruptly  from  the  train  of  thought.  The 
rest  was  almost  entirely  about  beer  and  was 
thick  with  local  topography  of  a  quite  unrecog- 


GRASSLEY-IN-THE-HOLE  139 

nisable  kind.  The  singer's  step  was  neither  very 
rapid  nor,  indeed,  exceptionally  secure;  so  the 
song  grew  louder  and  louder  and  the  two  soon 
overtook  him. 

He  was  a  man  elderly  or  rather  of  any  age, 
with  lean  gray  hair  and  a  lean  red  face,  but 
with  that  remarkable  rustic  physiognomy  in 
which  it  seems  that  all  the  features  stand  out  in- 
dependently from  the  face;  the  rugged  red  nose 
going  out  like  a  limb;  the  bleared  blue  eyes 
standing  out  like  signals. 

He  gave  them  greeting  with  the  elaborate  ur- 
banity of  the  slightly  intoxicated.  Maclan,  who 
was  vibrating  with  one  of  his  silent,  violent  de- 
cisions, opened  the  question  without  delay.  He 
explained  the  philosophic  position  in  words  as 
short  and  simple  as  possible.  But  the  singular 
old  man  with  the  lank  red  face  seemed  to  think 
uncommonly  little  of  the  short  words.  He  fixed 
with  a  fierce  affection  upon  one  or  two  of  the 
long  ones. 

"  Atheists !  "  he  repeated  with  luxurious  scorn. 
"  Atheists !  I  know  their  sort,  master.  Atheists ! 
Don't  talk  to  me  about  'un.     Atheists !  " 

The  grounds  of  his  disdain  seemed  a  little 
dark   and    confused;    but   they   were   evidently 


I40    THE    BALL    AND    THE    CROSS 

sufficient.  Maclan  resumed  in  some  encourage- 
ment: 

"  You  think  as  I  do,  I  hope ;  you  think  that  a 
man  should  be  connected  with  the  Church;  with 
the  common  Christian " 

The  old  man  extended  a  quivering  stick  in  the 
direction  of  a  distant  hill. 

"  There's  the  church,"  he  said  thickly. 
"  Grassley  old  church  that  is.  Pulled  down  it 
was,  in  the  old  squire's  time,  and " 

"  I  mean,"  explained  Maclan  elaborately, 
"  that  you  think  that  there  should  be  some  one 
typifying  religion,  a  priest " 

"  Priests!  "  said  the  old  man  with  sudden  pas- 
sion. "  Priests !  I  know  'un.  What  they  want 
in  England?  That's  what  I  say.  What  they 
want  in  England  ?  " 

"  They  want  you,"  said  Maclan. 

"  Quite  so,"  said  Turnbull,  "  and  me;  but  they 
won't  get  us.  Maclan,  your  attempt  on  the 
primitive  innocence  does  not  seem  very  success- 
ful. Let  me  try.  What  you  want,  my  friend, 
is  your  rights.  You  don't  want  any  priests  or 
churches.  A  vote,  a  right  to  speak  is  what 
you " 

"Who  says  I  a'n't  got  a  right  to  speak?"  said 


GRASSLEY-IN-THE-HOLE         141 

the  old  man,  facing  round  in  an  irrational  frenzy. 
"  I  got  a  right  to  speak,  I'm  a  man,  I  am.  I 
don't  want  no  votin'  nor  priests.  I  say  a  man's 
a  man;  that's  what  I  say.  If  a  man  a'n't  a  man, 
what  is  he?  That's  what  I  say,  if  a  man  a'n't  a 
man,  what  is  he?  When  I  sees  a  man,  I  sez  'e's 
a  man." 

"  Quite  so,"  said  Turnbull,  "  a  citizen." 

"  I  say  he's  a  man,"  said  the  rustic  furiously, 
stopping  and  striking  his  stick  on  the  ground. 
"  Not  a  city  or  owt  else.     He's  a  man." 

"  You're  perfectly  right,"  said  the  sudden 
voice  of  Maclan,  falling  like  a  sword.  "  And 
you  have  kept  close  to  something  the  whole 
world  of  to-day  tries  to  forget." 

"  Good-night." 

And  the  old  man  went  on  wildly  singing  into 
the  night. 

"  A  jolly  old  creature,"  said  Turnbull ;  "  he 
didn't  seem  able  to  get  much  beyond  that  fact 
that  a  man  is  a  man." 

"  Has  anybody  got  beyond  it  ?  "  asked  Mac- 
Ian. 

Turnbull  looked  at  him  curiously.  "  Are  you 
turning  an  agnostic  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Oh,  you  do  not  understand !  "  cried  out  Mac- 


142    THE    BALL   AND    THE    CROSS 

Ian.  "  We  Catholics  are  all  agnostics.  We 
Catholics  have  only  in  that  sense  got  as  far  as 
realising  that  a  man  is  a  man.  But  your  Ibsens 
and  your  Zolas  and  your  Shaws  and  your  Tol- 
stoys have  not  even  got  so  far." 


CHAPTER   VIII 

AN   INTERLUDE   OF   ARGUMENT 

Morning  broke  in  bitter  silver  along  the  gray 
and  level  plain ;  and  almost  as  it  did  so  Turnbull 
and  Maclan  came  out  of  a  low,  scrubby  wood  on 
to  the  empty  and  desolate  flats.  They  had 
walked  all  night. 

They  had  walked  all  night  and  talked  all  night 
also,  and  if  the  subject  had  been  capable  of  being 
exhausted  they  would  have  exhausted  it.  Their 
long  and  changing  argument  had  taken  them 
through  districts  and  landscapes  equally  chang- 
ing. They  had  discussed  Haeckel  upon  hills  so 
high  and  steep  that  in  spite  of  the  coldness  of  the 
night  it  seemed  as  if  the  stars  might  burn  them. 
They  had  explained  and  re-explained  the  Massa- 
cre of  St.  Bartholomew  in  little  white  lanes  walled 
in  with  standing  corn  as  with  walls  of  gold.  They 
had  talked  about  Mr.  Kensit  in  dim  and  twinkling 
pine  woods,  amid  the  bewildering  monotony  of 

the  pines.     And  it  was  with  the  end  of  a  long 
143 


144    THE    BALL    AND    THE    CROSS 

speech  from  Maclan,  passionately  defending  the 
practical  achievements  and  the  soHd  prosperity  of 
the  Catholic  tradition,  that  they  came  out  upon 
the  open  land. 

Maclan  had  learnt  much  and  thought  more 
since  he  came  out  of  the  cloudy  hills  of  Arisaig. 
He  had  met  many  typical  modern  figures  under 
circumstances  which  were  sharply  symbolic ;  and, 
moreover,  he  had  absorbed  the  main  modem 
atmosphere  from  the  mere  presence  and  chance 
phrases  of  Turnbull,  as  such  atmospheres  can 
always  be  absorbed  from  the  presence  and  the 
phrases  of  any  man  of  great  mental  vitality.  He 
had  at  last  begun  thoroughly  to  understand  what 
are  the  grounds  upon  which  the  mass  of  the  mod- 
ern world  solidly  disapprove  of  her  creed;  and 
he  threw  himself  into  replying  to  them  with  a 
hot  intellectual  enjoyment. 

"  I  begin  to  understand  one  or  two  of  your 
dogmas,  Mr.  Turnbull,"  he  had  said  emphatically 
as  they  ploughed  heavily  up  a  wooded  hill.  "  And 
every  one  that  I  understand  I  deny.  Take  any  one 
of  them  you  like.  You  hold  that  your  heretics  and 
sceptics  have  helped  the  world  forward  and  handed 
on  a  lamp  of  progress.  I  deny  it.  Nothing  is 
plainer  from  real  history  than  that  each  of  your 


.\N    INTERLUDE    OF    ARGUMENT    145 

heretics  invented  a  complete  cosmos  of  his  own 
which  the  next  heretic  smashed  entirely  to  pieces. 
Who  knows  now  exactly  what  Nestorius  taught? 
Who  cares?  There  are  only  two  things  that  we 
know  for  certain  about  it.  The  first  is  that  Nes- 
torius, as  a  heretic,  taught  something  quite  oppo- 
site to  the  teaching  of  Arius,  the  heretic  who  came 
before  him,  and  something  quite  useless  to  James 
Turnbull,  the  heretic  who  comes  after.  .  I  defy 
you  to  go  back  to  the  Freethinkers  of  the  past 
and  find  any  habitation  for  yourself  at  all.  I 
defy  you  to  read  Godwin  or  Shelley  or  the  deists 
of  the  eighteenth  century  or  the  nature-worship- 
ping humanists  of  the  Renaissance,  without  dis- 
covering that  you  differ  from  them  twice  as  much 
as  you  differ  from  the  Pope.  You  are  a  nine- 
teenth-century sceptic,  and  you  are  always  telling 
me  that  I  ignore  the  cruelty  of  nature.  If  you 
had  been  an  eighteenth-century  sceptic  you  would 
have  told  me  that  I  ignore  the  kindness  and  be- 
nevolence of  nature.  You  are  an  atheist,  and  you 
praise  the  deists  of  the  eighteenth  century.  Read 
them  instead  of  praising  them,  and  you  will  find 
that  their  whole  universe  stands  or  falls  with  the 
deity.  You  are  a  materialist,  and  you  think  Bruno 
a  scientific  hero.     See  what  he  said  and  you  will 


146    THE    BALL   AND    THE    CROSS 

think  him  an  insane  mystic.  No,  the  great  Free- 
thinker, with  his  genuine  ability  and  honesty,  does 
not  in  practice  destroy  Christianity.  What  he 
does  destroy  is  the  Freethinker  who  went  before. 
Freethought  may  be  suggestive,  it  may  be  in- 
spiriting, it  may  have  as  much  as  you  please  of 
the  merits  that  come  from  vivacity  and  variety. 
But  there  is  one  thing  Freethought  can  never 
be  by  any  possibility — Freethought  can  never  be 
progressive.  It  can  never  be  progressive  because 
it  will  accept  nothing  from  the  past;  it  begins 
every  time  again  from  the  beginning;  and  it 
goes  every  time  in  a  different  direction.  All  the 
rational  philosophers  have  gone  along  different 
roads,  so  it  is  impossible  to  say  which  has  gone 
furthest.  Who  can  discuss  whether  Emerson  was 
a  better  optimist  than  Schopenhauer  was  pessi- 
mist? It  is  like  asking  if  this  corn  is  as  yellow  as 
that  hill  is  steep.  No ;  there  are  only  two  things 
that  really  progress;  and  they  both  accept  accu- 
mulations of  authority.  They  may  be  progress- 
ing uphill  or  down ;  they  may  be  growing  steadily 
better  or  steadily  worse;  but  they  have  steadily 
increased  in  certain  definable  matters;  they  have 
steadily  advanced  in  a  certain  definable  direction ; 
they  are  the  only  two  things,  it  seems,  that  ever 


AN    INTERLUDE    OF    ARGUMENT    147 

can  progress.  The  first  is  strictly  physical  science. 
The  second  is  the  Catholic  Church." 

"  Physical  science  and  the  Catholic  Church !  " 
said  Turnbull  sarcastically ;  "  and  no  doubt  the 
first  owes  a  great  deal  to  the  second." 

"  If  you  pressed  that  point  I  might  reply  that 
it  was  very  probable,"  answered  Maclan  calmly. 
"  I  often  fancy  that  your  historical  generalisations 
rest  frequently  on  random  instances ;  I  should  not 
be  surprised  if  your  vague  notions  of  the  Church 
as  the  persecutor  of  science  were  a  generalisation 
from  Galileo.  I  should  not  be  at  all  surprised  if, 
when  you  counted  the  scientific  investigations  and 
discoveries  since  the  fall  of  Rome,  you  found 
that  a  great  mass  of  them  had  been  made  by 
monks.  But  the  matter  is  irrelevant  to  my  mean- 
ing. I  say  that  if  you  want  an  example  of  any- 
thing which  has  progressed  in  the  moral  world 
by  the  same  method  as  science  in  the  material 
world,  by  continually  adding  to  without  unset- 
tling what  was  there  before,  then  I  say  that  there 
is  only  one  example  of  it.    And  that  is  Us." 

"  With  this  enormous  difference,"  said  Turn- 
bull,  "  that  however  elaborate  be  the  calculations 
of  physical  science,  their  net  result  can  be  tested. 
Granted  that  it  took  millions  of  books  I  never 


148    THE    BALL    AND    THE    CROSS 

read  and  millions  of  men  I  never  heard  of  to  dis- 
cover tlie  electric  light.  Still  I  can  see  the  elec- 
tric light.  But  I  cannot  see  the  supreme  virtue 
which  is  the  result  of  all  your  theologies  and 
sacraments." 

"  Catholic  virtue  is  often  invisible  because  it  is 
the  normal,"  answered  Maclan.  "  Christianity  is 
always  out  of  fashion  because  it  is  always  sane; 
and  all  fashions  are  mild  insanities.  When  Italy 
is  mad  on  art  the  Church  seems  too  Puritanical; 
when  England  is  mad  on  Puritanism  the  Church 
seems  too  artistic.  When  you  quarrel  with  us 
now  you  class  us  with  kingship  and  despotism; 
but  when  you  quarrelled  with  us  first  it  was  be- 
cause we  would  not  accept  the  divine  despotism 
of  Henry  VUL  The  Church  always  seems  to  be 
behind  the  times,  when  it  is  really  beyond  the 
times ;  it  is  waiting  till  the  last  fad  shall  have  seen 
its  last  summer.  It  keeps  the  key  of  a  permanent 
virtue." 

"  Oh,  I  have  heard  all  that !  "  said  Turnbull 
with  genial  contempt.  "  I  have  heard  that  Chris- 
tianity keeps  the  key  of  virtue,  and  that  if  you 
read  Tom  Paine  you  will  cut  your  throat  at 
Monte  Carlo.  It  is  such  rubbish  that  I  am  not 
even  angry  at  it.     You  say  that  Christianity  is 


AN    INTERLUDE    OF    ARGUMENT    149 

the  prop  of  morals;  but  what  more  do  you  do? 
When  a  doctor  attends  you  and  could  poison  you 
with  a  pinch  of  salt,  do  you  ask  whether  he  is  a 
Christian?  You  ask  whether  he  is  a  gentleman, 
whether  he  is  an  M.D. — anything  but  that.  When 
a  soldier  enlists  to  die  for  his  country  or  disgrace 
it,  do  you  ask  whether  he  is  a  Christian?  You 
are  more  likely  to  ask  whether  he  is  Oxford  or 
Cambridge  at  the  Boat  Race.  If  you  think  your 
creed  essential  to  morals  why  do  you  not  make  it 
a  test  for  these  things  ?  " 

"  We  once  did  make  it  a  test  for  these  things," 
said  Maclan  smiling,  "  and  then  you  told  us  that 
we  were  imposing  by  force  a  faith  unsupported 
by  argument.  It  seems  rather  hard  that  having 
first  been  told  that  our  creed  must  be  false  be- 
cause we  did  use  tests,  we  should  now  be  told 
that  it  must  be  false  because  we  don't.  But  I 
notice  that  most  anti-Christian  arguments  are  in 
the  same  inconsistent  style." 

"  That  is  all  very  well  as  a  debating-club  an- 
swer," replied  Turnbull  good-humouredly,  "  but 
the  question  still  remains :  Why  don't  you  con- 
fine yourself  more  to  Christians  if  Christians  are 
the  only  really  good  men  ?  " 

"Who  talked  of  such  folly?"  asked  Maclan 


I50    THE    BALL   AND    THE    CROSS 

disdainfully.  "  Do  you  suppose  that  the  Catholic 
Church  ever  held  that  Christians  were  the  only 
good  men?  Why,  the  Catholics  of  the  Catholic 
Middle  Ages  talked  about  the  virtues  of  all  the 
virtuous  Pagans  until  humanity  was  sick  of  the 
subject.  No,  if  you  really  want  to  know  what 
we  mean  when  we  say  that  Christianity  has  a 
special  power  of  virtue,  I  will  tell  you.  The 
Church  is  the  only  thing  on  earth  that  can  per- 
petuate a  type  of  virtue  and  make  it  something 
more  than  a  fashion.  The  thing  is  so  plain 
and  historical  that  I  hardly  think  you  will  ever 
deny  it.  You  cannot  deny  that  it  is  perfectly 
possible  that  to-morrow  morning,  in  Ireland  or  in 
Italy,  there  might  appear  a  man  not  only  as  good 
but  good  in  exactly  the  same  way  as  St.  Francis 
of  Assisi.  Very  well,  now  take  the  other  types 
of  human  virtue ;  many  of  them  splendid.  The 
English  gentleman  of  Elizabeth  was  chivalrous 
and  idealistic.  But  can  you  stand  still  here  in 
this  meadow  and  be  an  English  gentleman  of 
Elizabeth?  The  austere  republican  of  the  eigh- 
teenth century,  with  his  stern  patriotism  and  his 
simple  life,  was  a  fine  fellow.  But  have  you  ever 
seen  him?  have  you  ever  seen  an  austere  repub- 
lican?    Only  a  hundred  years  have  passed  and 


AN    INTERLUDE    OF   ARGUMENT    151 

that  volcano  of  revolutionary  truth  and  valour 
is  as  cold  as  the  mountains  of  the  moon.  And 
so  it  is  and  so  it  will  be  with  the  ethics  which 
are  buzzing  down  Fleet  Street  at  this  instant  as 
I  speak.  What  phrase  would  inspire  the  London 
clerk  or  workman  just  now?  Perhaps  that  he 
is  a  son  of  the  British  Empire  on  which  the  sun 
never  sets ;  perhaps  that  he  is  a  prop  of  his  Trades 
Union,  or  a  class,  conscious  proletarian  some- 
thing or  other ;  perhaps  merely  that  he  is  a  gentle- 
man when  he  obviously  is  not.  Those  names 
and  notions  are  all  honourable;  but  how  long 
will  they  last?  Empires  break;  industrial  con- 
ditions change;  the  suburbs  will  not  last  for 
ever.  What  will  remain?  I  will  tell  you.  The 
Catholic  Saint  will  remain." 

"  And  suppose  I  don't  like  him,"  said  Turn- 
bull. 

"  On  my  theory  the  question  is  rather  whether 
he  will  like  you :  or  more  probably  whether  he  will 
ever  have  heard  of  you.  But  I  grant  the  reason- 
ableness of  your  query.  You  have  a  right,  if  you 
speak  as  the  ordinary  man,  to  ask  if  you  will  like 
the  saint.  But  as  the  ordinary  man  you  do  like 
him.  You  revel  in  him.  If  you  dislike  him  it  is 
not  because  you  are  a  nice  ordinary  man,  but  be- 


152    THE    BALL   AND    THE    CROSS 

cause  you  are  (if  you  will  excuse  me)  a  sophisti- 
cated prig  of  a  Fleet  Street  editor.  That  is  just  the 
funny  part  of  it.  The  human  race  has  always 
admired  the  Catholic  virtues,  however  little  it 
can  practise  them;  and  oddly  enough  it  has  ad- 
mired most  those  of  them  that  the  modern  world 
most  sharply  disputes.  You  complain  of  Ca- 
tholicism for  setting  up  an  ideal  of  virginity;  it 
did  nothing  of  the  kind.  The  whole  human  race 
set  up  an  ideal  of  virginity ;  the  Greeks  in  Athene, 
the  Romans  in  the  Vestal  fire,  set  up  an  ideal  of 
virginity.  What  then  is  your  real  quarrel  with 
Catholicism?  Your  quarrel  can  only  be,  your 
quarrel  really  only  is,  that  Catholicism  has 
achieved  an  ideal  of  virginity;  that  it  is  no 
longer  a  mere  piece  of  floating  poetry.  But  if 
you,  and  a  few  feverish  men,  in  top  hats,  run- 
ning about  in  a  street  in  London,  choose  to  differ 
as  to  the  ideal  itself,  not  only  from  the  Church, 
but  from  the  Parthenon  whose  name  means  vir- 
ginity, from  the  Roman  Empire  which  went  out- 
wards from  the  virgin  flame,  from  the  whole 
legend  and  tradition  of  Europe,  from  the  lion 
who  will  not  touch  virgins,  from  the  unicorn  who 
respects  them,  and  who  make  up  together  the 
bearers  of  your  own  national  shield,  from  the 


AN    INTERLUDE    OF    ARGUMENT    153 

most  living  and  lawless  of  your  own  poets,  from 
Massinger,  who  wrote  the  *  Virgin  Martyr/  from 
Shakespeare,  who  wrote  *  Measure  for  Measure  ' 
— if  you  in  Fleet  Street  differ  from  all  this  hu- 
man experience,  does  it  never  strike  you  that  it 
may  be  Fleet  Street  that  is  wrong?  " 

"  No,"  answered  Tumbull ;  "  I  trust  that  I  am 
sufficiently  fair-minded  to  canvass  and  consider 
the  idea;  but  having  considered  it,  I  think  Fleet 
Street  is  right,  yes — even  if  the  Parthenon  is 
wrong.  I  think  that  as  the  world  goes  on  new 
psychological  atmospheres  are  generated,  and  in 
these  atmospheres  it  is  possible  to  find  delicacies 
and  combinations  which  in  other  times  would 
have  to  be  represented  by  some  ruder  symbol. 
Every  man  feels  the  need  of  some  element  of 
purity  in  sex ;  perhaps  they  can  only  typify  purity 
as  the  absence  of  sex.  You  will  laugh  if  I  sug- 
gest that  we  may  have  made  in  Fleet  Street  an  at- 
mosphere in  which  a  man  can  be  so  passionate  as 
Sir  Lancelot  and  as  pure  as  Sir  Galahad.  But, 
after  all,  we  have  in  the  modem  world  erected 
many  such  atmospheres.  We  have,  for  instance, 
a  new  and  imaginative  appreciation  of  children." 

"  Quite  so,"  replied  Maclan  with  a  singular 
smile.    "  It  has  been  very  well  put  by  one  of  the 


154    THE    BALL   AND    THE    CROSS 

brightest  of  your  young  authors,  who  said :  *  Un- 
less you  become  as  Httle  children  ye  shall  in  no 
wise  enter  the  kingdom  of  heaven.'  But  you 
are  quite  right;  there  is  a  modern  worship  of 
children.  And  what,  I  ask  you,  is  this  modern 
worship  of  children?  What,  in  the  name  of  all 
the  angels  and  devils,  is  it  except  the  worship  of 
virginity  ?  Why  should  any  one  worship  a  thing 
merely  because  it  is  small  or  immature?  No; 
you  have  tried  to  escape  from  this  thing,  and  the 
very  thing  you  point  to  as  the  goal  of  your  escape 
is  only  the  thing  again.  Am  I  wrong  in  saying 
that  these  things  seem  to  be  eternal  ?  " 

And  it  was  with  these  words  that  they  came 
in  sight  of  the  great  plains.  They  went  a  little 
way  in  silence,  and  then  James  Turnbull  said  sud- 
denly, "  But  I  cannot  believe  in  the  thing."  Mac- 
Ian  answered  nothing  to  the  speech;  perhaps 
it  is  unanswerable.  And  indeed  they  scarcely 
spoke  another  word  to  each  other  all  that  day. 


CHAPTER    IX 


THE   STRANGE   LADY 


MooNRiSE  with  a  great  and  growing  moon 
opened  over  all  those  flats,  making  them  seem 
flatter  and  larger  than  they  were,  turning  them  to 
a  lake  of  blue  light.  The  two  companions  trudged 
across  the  moonlit  plain  for  half  an  hour  in  full 
silence.  Then  Maclan  stopped  suddenly  and 
planted  his  sword-point  in  the  ground  like  one 
who  plants  his  tent-pole  for  the  night.  Leaving  it 
standing  there,  he  clutched  his  black-haired  skull 
with  his  great  claws  of  hands,  as  was  his  custom 
when  forcing  the  pace  of  his  brain.  Then  his 
hands  dropped  again  and  he  spoke. 

"  I'm  sure  you're  thinking  the  same  as  I  am," 
he  said;  "  how  long  are  we  to  be  on  this  damned 
seesaw  ?  " 

The  other  did  not  answer,  but  his  silence 
seemed  somehow  solid  as  assent;  and  Maclan 
went  on  conversationally.  Neither  noticed  that 
155 


156    THE    BALL    AND    THE    CROSS 

both  had  instinctively  stood  still  before  the  sign 
of  the  fixed  and  standing  sword. 

"  It  is  hard  to  guess  what  God  means  in  this 
business.  But  He  means  something — or  the  other 
thing,  or  both.  Whenever  we  have  tried  to  fight 
each  other  something  has  stopped  us.  Whenever 
we  have  tried  to  be  reconciled  to  each  other,  some- 
thing has  stopped  us  again.  By  the  run  of  our 
luck  we  have  never  had  time  to  be  either  friends 
or  enemies.  Something  always  jumped  out  of 
the  bushes." 

Turnbull  nodded  gravely  and  glanced  round  at 
the  huge  and  hedgeless  meadow  which  fell  away 
toward  the  horizon  into  a  glimmering  high  road. 

"  Nothing  will  jump  out  of  bushes  here  any- 
how," he  said. 

"  That  is  what  I  meant,"  said  Maclan,  and 
stared  steadily  at  the  heavy  hilt  of  his  standing 
sword,  which  in  the  slight  wind  swayed  on  its 
tempered  steel  like  some  huge  thistle  on  its  stalk, 

"  That  is  what  I  meant ;  we  are  quite  alone 
here.  I  have  not  heard  a  horse-hoof  or  a  footstep 
or  the  hoot  of  a  train  for  miles.  So  I  think  we 
might  stop  here  and  ask  for  a  miracle." 

"  Oh !  Might  we  ?  "  said  the  atheistic  editor 
with  a  sort  of  gusto  of  disgust. 


THE    STRANGE    LADY  157 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Maclan,  meekly. 
"  I  forgot  your  prejudices."  He  eyed  the  wind- 
swung  sword-hilt  in  sad  meditation  and  resumed : 
"  What  I  mean  is,  we  might  find  out  in  this  quiet 
place  whether  there  really  is  any  fate  or  any  com- 
mandment against  our  enterprise.  I  will  engage 
on  my  side,  like  Elijah,  to  accept  a  test  from 
heaven.  Turnbull,  let  us  draw  swords  here  in 
this  moonlight  and  this  monstrous  solitude.  And 
if  here  in  this  moonlight  and  solitude  there  hap- 
pens anything  to  interrupt  us — if  it  be  lightning 
striking  our  sword-blades  or  a  rabbit  running 
under  our  legs — I  will  take  it  as  a  sign  from  God 
and  we  will  shake  hands  for  ever." 

Turnbull's  mouth  twitched  in  angry  humour 
under  his  red  moustache.  He  said :  "  I  will  wait 
for  signs  from  God  until  I  have  any  signs  of  His 
existence;  but  God — or  Fate — forbid  that  a  man 
of  scientific  culture  should  refuse  any  kind  of  ex- 
periment." 

"Very  well,  then,"  said  Maclan,  shortly.  "We 
are  more  quiet  here  than  anywhere  else;  let  us 
engage."  And  he  plucked  his  sword-point  out 
of  the  turf. 

Turnbull  regarded  him  for  a  second  and  a  half 
with  a  baffling  visage  almost  black  against  the 


158    THE    BALL   AND    THE    CROSS 

moonrise;  then  his  hand  made  a  sharp  movement 
to  his  hip  and  his  sword  shone  in  the  moon. 

As  old  chess-players  open  every  game  with  es- 
tablished gambits,  they  opened  with  a  thrust  and 
parry,  orthodox  and  even  frankly  ineffectual. 
But  in  Maclan's  soul  more  formless  storms  were 
gathering,  and  he  made  a  lunge  or  two  so  savage 
as  first  to  surprise  and  then  to  enrage  his  oppo- 
nent. TurnbuU  ground  his  teeth,  kept  his  temper, 
and  waiting  for  the  third  lunge,  and  the  worst, 
had  almost  spitted  the  lunger  when  a  shrill,  small 
cry  came  from  behind  him,  a  cry  such  as  is 
not  made  by  any  of  the  beasts  that  perish. 

Turnbull  must  have  been  more  superstitious 
than  he  knew,  for  he  stopped  in  the  act  of  going 
forward.  Maclan  was  brazenly  superstitious, 
and  he  dropped  his  sword.  After  all,  he  had 
challenged  the  universe  to  send  an  interruption; 
and  this  was  an  interruption,  whatever  else  it 
was.  An  instant  afterward  the  sharp,  weak  cry 
was  repeated.  This  time  it  was  certain  that  it 
was  human  and  that  it  was  female. 

Maclan  stood  rolling  those  great  blue  Gaelic 
eyes  that  contrasted  with  his  dark  hair.  "  It  is 
the  voice  of  God,"  he  said  again  and  again. 

"  God  hasn't  got  much  of  a  voice,"  said  Turn- 


THE    STRANGE   LADY  159 

bull,  who  snatched  at  every  chance  of  cheap  pro- 
fanity. "  As  a  matter  of  fact,  Maclan,  it  isn't 
the  voice  of  God,  but  it's  something  a  jolly 
sight  more  important — it  is  the  voice  of  man — or 
rather  of  woman.  So  I  think  we'd  better  scoot  in 
its  direction." 

Maclan  snatched  up  his  fallen  weapon  without 
a  word,  and  the  two  raced  away  toward  that 
part  of  the  distant  road  from  which  the  cry  was 
now  constantly  renewed. 

They  had  to  run  over  a  curve  of  country  that 
looked  smooth  but  was  very  rough;  a  neglected 
field  which  they  soon  found  to  be  full  of  the  tall- 
est grasses  and  the  deepest  rabbit  holes.  More- 
over, that  great  curve  of  the  countryside  which 
looked  so  slow  and  gentle  when  you  glanced  over 
it,  proved  to  be  highly  precipitous  when  you  scam- 
pered over  it;  and  Turnbull  was  twice  nearly 
flung  on  his  face.  Maclan,  though  much  heavier, 
avoided  such  an  overthrow  only  by  having  the 
quick  and  incalculable  feet  of  the  mountaineer; 
but  both  of  them  may  be  said  to  have  leapt  off  a 
low  cliff  when  they  leapt  into  the  road. 

The  moonlight  lay  on  the  white  road  with  a 
more  naked  and  electric  glare  than  on  the  grey- 
green  upland,  and  though  the  scene  which  it  re- 


i6o    THE    BALL    AND    THE    CROSS 

vealed  was  complicated,  it  was  not  difficult  to  get 
its  first  features  at  a  glance. 

A  small  but  very  neat  black-and-yellow  motor- 
car was  standing  stolidly,  slightly  to  the  left  of 
the  road.  A  somewhat  larger  light-green  motor- 
car was  tipped  half  way  into  a  ditch  on  the  same 
side,  and  four  flushed  and  staggering  men  in 
evening  dress  were  tipped  out  of  it.  Three  of 
them  were  standing  about  the  road,  giving  their 
opinions  to  the  moon  with  vague  but  echoing  vio- 
lence. The  fourth,  however,  had  already  ad- 
vanced on  the  chauffeur  of  the  black-and-yellow 
car,  and  was  threatening  him  with  a  stick.  The 
chauffeur  had  risen  to  defend  himself.  By  his 
side  sat  a  young  lady. 

She  was  sitting  bolt  upright,  a  slender  and 
rigid  figure  gripping  the  sides  of  her  seat,  and 
her  first  few  cries  had  ceased.  She  was  clad  in 
close-fitting  dark  costume,  a  mass  of  warm  brown 
hair  went  out  in  two  wings  or  waves  on  each  side 
of  her  forehead ;  and  even  at  that  distance  it  could 
be  seen  that  her  profile  was  of  the  aquiline  and 
eager  sort,  like  a  young  falcon  hardly  free  of  the 
nest. 

Turnbull  had  concealed  in  him  somewhere  a 
fund   of   common-sense   and   knowledge  of   the 


THE    STRANGE    LADY  i6i 

world  of  which  he  himself  and  his  best  friends 
were  hardly  aware.  He  was  one  of  those  who 
take  in  much  of  the  shows  of  things  absent- 
mindedly,  and  in  an  irrelevant  reverie.  As  he 
stood  at  the  door  of  his  editorial  shop  on  Ludgate 
Hill  and  meditated  on  the  non-existence  of  God, 
he  silently  absorbed  a  good  deal  of  varied  knowl- 
edge about  the  existence  of  men.  He  had  come 
to  know  types  by  instinct  and  dilemmas  with  a 
glance;  he  saw  the  crux  of  the  situation  in  the 
road,  and  what  he  saw  made  him  redouble  his 
pace. 

He  knew  that  the  men  were  rich ;  he  knew  that 
they  were  drunk;  and  he  knew,  what  was  worst 
of  all,  that  they  were  fundamentally  frightened. 
And  he  knew  this  also,  that  no  common  ruffian 
(such  as  attacks  ladies  in  novels)  is  ever  so  savage 
and  ruthless  as  a  coarse  kind  of  gentleman  when 
he  is  really  alarmed.  The  reason  is  not  recon- 
dite; it  is  simply  because  the  police-court  is  not 
such  a  menacing  novelty  to  the  poor  ruffian  as  it 
is  to  the  rich.  When  they  came  within  hail  and 
heard  the  voices,  they  confirmed  all  Turnbull's 
anticipations.  The  man  in  the  middle  of  the  road 
was  shouting  in  a  hoarse  and  groggy  voice  that 
the  chauffeur  had  smashed  their  car  on  purpose; 


i62    THE    BALL   AND    THE    CROSS 

that  they  must  get  to  the  Cri  that  evening,  and 
that  he  would  jolly  well  have  to  take  them  there. 
The  chauffeur  had  mildly  objected  that  he  was 
driving  a  lady.  "  Oh !  we'll  take  care  of  the 
lady,"  said  the  red-faced  young  man,  and  went  off 
into  gurgling  and  almost  senile  laughter. 

By  the  time  the  two  champions  came  up,  things 
had  grown  more  serious.  The  intoxication  of  the 
man  talking  to  the  chauffeur  had  taken  one  of  its 
perverse  and  catlike  jumps  into  mere  screaming 
spite  and  rage.  He  lifted  his  stick  and  struck  at 
the  chauffeur,  who  caught  hold  of  it,  and  the 
drunkard  fell  backward,  dragging  him  out  of  his 
seat  on  the  car.  Another  of  the  rowdies  rushed 
forward  booing  in  idiot  excitement,  fell  over  the 
chauffeur,  and,  either  by  accident  or  design, 
kicked  him  as  he  lay.  The  drunkard  got  to  his 
feet  again ;  but  the  chauffeur  did  not. 

The  man  who  had  kicked  kept  a  kind  of 
half-witted  conscience  or  cowardice,  for  he  stood 
staring  at  the  senseless  body  and  murmuring 
words  of  inconsequent  self-justification,  making 
gestures  with  his  hands  as  if  he  were  arguing 
with  somebody.  But  the  other  three,  with  a  mere 
whoop  and  howl  of  victory,  were  boarding  the 
car  on  three  sides  at  once.    It  was  exactly  at  this 


THE    STRANGE   LADY  163 

moment  that  Turnbull  fell  among  them  like  one 
fallen  from  the  sky.  He  tore  one  of  the  climbers 
backward  by  the  collar,  and  with  a  hearty  push 
sent  him  staggering  over  into  the  ditch  upon  his 
nose.  One  of  the  remaining  two,  who  was  too 
far  gone  to  notice  anything,  continued  to  clam- 
ber ineffectually  over  the  high  back  of  the  car, 
kicking  and  pouring  forth  a  rivulet  of  soliloquy. 
But  the  other  dropped  at  the  interruption,  turned 
upon  Turnbull  and  began  a  battering  bout  of  fisti- 
cuffs. At  the  same  moment  the  man  crawled  out 
of  the  ditch  in  a  masquerade  of  mud  and  rushed 
at  his  old  enemy  from  behind.  The  whole  had 
not  taken  a  second;  and  an  instant  after  Maclan 
was  in  the  midst  of  them. 

Turnbull  had  tossed  away  his  sheathed  sword, 
greatly  preferring  his  hands,  except  in  the  avowed 
etiquette  of  the  duel ;  for  he  had  learnt  to  use  his 
hands  in  the  old  street-battles  of  Bradlaugh.  But 
to  Maclan  the  sword  even  sheathed  was  a  more 
natural  weapon,  and  he  laid  about  him  on  all 
sides  with  it  as  with  a  stick.  The  man  who  had 
the  walking-stick  found  his  blows  parried  with 
promptitude;  and  a  second  after,  to  his  great  as- 
tonishment, found  his  own  stick  fly  up  in  the  air 
as  by  a  conjuring  trick,  with  a  turn  of  the  swords- 


i64    THE    BALL    AND    THE    CROSS 

man's  wrist.  Another  of  the  revellers  picked  the 
stick  out  of  the  ditch  and  ran  in  upon  Maclan, 
calling  to  his  companion  to  assist  him. 

"  I  haven't  got  a  stick,"  grumbled  the  dis- 
armed man,  and  looked  vaguely  about  the  ditch. 

"  Perhaps,"  said  Maclan,  politely,  "  you  would 
like  this  one."  With  the  word  the  drunkard 
found  his  hand  that  had  grasped  the  stick  sud- 
denly twisted  and  empty;  and  the  stick  lay  at  the 
feet  of  his  companion  on  the  other  side  of  the 
road.  Maclan  felt  a  faint  stir  behind  him;  the 
girl  had  risen  to  her  feet  and  was  leaning  forward 
to  stare  at  the  fighters.  Turnbull  was  still  en- 
gaged in  countering  and  pommelling  with  the 
third  young  man.  The  fourth  young  man  was 
still  engaged  with  himself,  kicking  his  legs  in 
helpless  rotation  on  the  back  of  the  car  and  talk- 
ing with  melodious  rationality. 

At  length  TurnbuU's  opponent  began  to  back 
before  the  battery  of  his  heavy  hands,  still  fight- 
ing, for  he  was  the  soberest  and  boldest  of  the 
four.  If  these  are  annals  of  military  glory,  it  is 
due  to  him  to  say  that  he  need  not  have  aban- 
doned the  conflict;  only  that  as  he  backed  to  the 
edge  of  the  ditch  his  foot  caught  in  a  loop  of 
grass  and  he  went  over  in  a  flat  and  comfortable 


THE    STRANGE    LADY  165 

position  from  which  it  took  him  a  considerable 
time  to  rise.  By  the  time  he  had  risen,  Turnbull 
had  come  to  the  rescue  of  Maclan,  who  was  at 
bay  but  belabouring  his  two  enemies  handsomely. 
The  sight  of  the  liberated  reserve  was  to  them 
like  that  of  Blucher  at  Waterloo;  the  two  set  off 
at  a  sullen  trot  down  the  road,  leaving  even  the 
walking-stick  lying  behind  them  in  the  moon- 
light. Maclan  plucked  the  struggling  and  aspir- 
ing idiot  off  the  back  of  the  car  like  a  stray  cat, 
and  left  him  swaying  unsteadily  in  the  moon. 
Then  he  approached  the  front  part  of  the  car  in 
a  somewhat  embarrassed  manner  and  pulled  off 
his  cap. 

For  some  solid  seconds  the  lady  and  he  merely 
looked  at  each  other,  and  Maclan  had  an  irra- 
tional feeling  of  being  in  a  picture  hung  on  a  wall. 
That  is,  he  was  motionless,  even  lifeless,  and 
yet  staringly  significant,  like  a  picture.  The 
white  moonlight  on  the  road,  when  he  was  not 
looking  at  it,  gave  him  a  vision  of  the  road  being 
white  with  snow.  The  motor-car,  when  he  was 
not  looking  at  it,  gave  him  a  rude  impression  of 
a  captured  coach  in  the  old  days  of  highwaymen. 
And  he  whose  whole  soul  was  with  the  swords 
and  stately  manners  of  the  eighteenth  century,  he 


i66    THE    BALL   AND    THE    CROSS 

who  was  a  Jacobite  risen  from  the  dead,  had  an 
overwhelming  sense  of  being  once  more  in  the 
picture,  when  he  had  so  long  been  out  of  the 
picture. 

In  that  short  and  strong  silence  he  absorbed 
the  lady  from  head  to  foot.  He  had  never  really 
looked  at  a  human  being  before  in  his  life.  He 
saw  her  face  and  hair  first,  then  that  she  had 
long  suede  gloves;  then  that  there  was  a  fur  cap 
at  the  back  of  her  brown  hair.  He  might,  per- 
haps, be  excused  for  this  hungry  attention.  He 
had  prayed  that  some  sign  might  come  from 
heaven;  and  after  an  almost  savage  scrutiny  he 
came  to  the  conclusion  that  this  one  did.  The 
lady's  instantaneous  arrest  of  speech  might  need 
more  explaining;  but  she  may  well  have  been 
stunned  with  the  squalid  attack  and  the  abrupt 
rescue.  Yet  it  was  she  who  remembered  herself 
first  and  suddenly  called  out  with  self-accusing 
horror : 

"  Oh,  that  poor,  poor  man !  " 

They  both  swung  round  abruptly  and  saw  that 
Turnbull,  with  his  recovered  sword  under  his 
arm-pit,  was  already  lifting  the  fallen  chauffeur 
into  the  car.  He  was  only  stunned  and  was 
slowly  awakening,  feebly  waving  his  left  arm. 


THE    STRANGE   LADY  167 

The  lady  in  the  long  gloves  and  the  fur  cap 
leapt  out  and  ran  rapidly  toward  them,  only  to  be 
reassured  by  Turnbull,  who  (unlike  many  of  his 
school)  really  knew  a  little  science  when  he  in- 
voked it  to  redeem  the  world.  "  He's  all  right," 
said  he ;  "  he's  quite  safe.  But  I'm  afraid  he 
won't  be  able  to  drive  the  car  for  half  an  hour 
or  so." 

"  I  can  drive  the  car,"  said  the  young  woman 
in  the  fur  cap  with  stony  practicability. 

"  Oh,  in  that  case,"  began  Maclan,  uneasily ; 
and  that  paralysing  shyness  which  is  a  part  of  ro- 
mance induced  him  to  make  a  backward  move- 
ment as  if  leaving  her  to  herself.  But  Turnbull 
was  more  rational  than  he,  being  more  in- 
different. 

"  I  don't  think  you  ought  to  drive  home  alone, 
ma'am,"  he  said,  gruffly.  "  There  seem  to  be  a 
lot  of  rowdy  parties  along  this  road,  and  the  man 
will  be  no  use  for  an  hour.  If  you  will  tell  us 
where  you  are  going,  we  will  see  you  safely  there 
and  say  good-night." 

The  young  lady  exhibited  all  the  abrupt  dis- 
turbance of  a  person  who  is  not  commonly  dis- 
turbed. She  said  almost  sharply  and  yet  with 
evident  sincerity :  "  Of  course  I  am  awfully  grate- 


i68    THE    BALL   AND    THE    CROSS 

ful  to  you  for  all  you've  done — ^and  there's  plenty 
of  room  if  you'll  come  in." 

Turnbull,  with  the  complete  innocence  of  an 
absolutely  sound  motive,  immediately  jumped 
into  the  car;  but  the  girl  cast  an  eye  at  Maclan, 
who  stood  in  the  road  for  an  instant  as  if  rooted 
like  a  tree.  Then  he  also  tumbled  his  long  legs 
into  the  tonneau,  having  that  sense  of  degradedly 
diving  into  heaven  which  so  many  have  known 
in  so  many  human  houses  when  they  consented 
to  stop  to  tea  or  were  allowed  to  stop  to  supper. 
The  slowly  reviving  chauffeur  was  set  in  the 
back  seat :  Turnbull  and  Maclan  had  fallen  into 
the  middle  one ;  the  lady  with  a  steely  coolness 
had  taken  the  driver's  seat  and  all  the  handles  of 
that  headlong  machine.  A  moment  afterward 
the  engine  started,  with  a  throb  and  leap  unfa- 
miliar to  Turnbull,  who  had  only  once  been  in  a 
motor  during  a  general  election,  and  utterly 
unknown  to  Maclan,  who  in  his  present  mood 
thought  it  was  the  end  of  the  world.  Almost  at 
the  same  instant  that  the  car  plucked  itself  out  of 
the  mud  and  whipped  away  up  the  road,  the  man 
who  had  been  flung  into  the  ditch  rose  waveringly 
to  his  feet.  When  he  saw  the  car  escaping  he  ran 
after  it  and  shouted  something  which,  owing  to 


THE    STRANGE   LADY  169 

the  increasing  distance,  could  not  be  heard.  It  is 
awful  to  reflect  that,  if  his  remark  was  valuable, 
it  is  quite  lost  to  the  world. 

The  car  shot  on  up  and  down  the  shining 
moonlit  lanes,  and  there  was  no  sound  in  it  except 
the  occasional  click  or  catch  of  its  machinery ;  for 
through  some  cause  or  other  no  soul  inside  it 
could  think  of  a  word  to  say.  The  lady  sym- 
bolised her  feelings,  whatever  they  were,  by  urg- 
ing the  machine  faster  and  faster  until  scattered 
woodlands  went  by  them  in  one  black  blotch  and 
heavy  hills  and  valleys  seemed  to  ripple  under  the 
wheels  like  mere  waves.  A  little  while  afterward 
this  mood  seemed  to  slacken  and  she  fell  into  a 
more  ordinary  pace;  but  still  she  did  not  speak. 
Turnbull,  who  kept  a  more  common  and  sensible 
view  of  the  case  than  any  one  else,  made  some  re- 
mark about  the  moonlight;  but  something  inde- 
scribable made  him  also  relapse  into  silence. 

All  this  time  Maclan  had  been  in  a  sort  of 
monstrous  delirium,  like  some  fabulous  hero 
snatched  up  into  the  moon.  The  difference  be- 
tween this  experience  and  common  experiences 
was  analogous  to  that  between  waking  life  and 
a  dream.  Yet  he  did  not  feel  in  the  least  as  if  he 
were  dreaming;  rather  the  other  way;  as  waking 


lyo    THE   BALL   AND    THE    CROSS 

was  more  actual  than  dreaming,  so  this  seemed 
by  another  degree  more  actual  than  waking  itself. 
But  it  was  another  life  altogether,  like  a  cosmos 
with  a  new  dimension. 

He  felt  he  had  been  hurled  into  some  new  in- 
carnation :  into  the  midst  of  new  relations,  wrongs 
and  rights,  with  towering  responsibilities  and  al- 
most tragic  joys  which  he  had  as  yet  had  no 
time  to  examine.  Heaven  had  not  merely  sent 
him  a  message ;  Heaven  itself  had  opened  around 
him  and  given  him  an  hour  of  its  own  ancient  and 
star-shattering  energy.  He  had  never  felt  so 
much  alive  before ;  and  yet  he  was  like  a  man  in 
a  trance.  And  if  you  had  asked  him  on  what  his 
throbbing  happiness  hung,  he  could  only  have 
told  you  that  it  hung  on  four  or  five  visible  facts, 
as  a  curtain  hangs  on  four  or  five  fixed  nails. 
The  fact  that  the  lady  had  a  little  fur  at  her 
throat;  the  fact  that  the  curve  of  her  cheek  was 
a  low  and  lean  curve  and  that  the  moonlight 
caught  the  height  of  her  cheek-bone;  the  fact 
that  her  hands  were  small  but  heavily  gloved  as 
they  gripped  the  steering-wheel;  the  fact  that  a 
white  witch  light  was  on  the  road;  the  fact  that 
the  brisk  breeze  of  their  passage  stirred  and  flut- 
tered a  little  not  only  the  brown  hair  of  her  head 


THE    STRANGE    LADY  171 

but  the  black  fur  on  her  cap.  All  these  facts  were 
to  him  certain  and  incredible,  like  sacraments. 

When  they  had  driven  half  a  mile  farther,  a 
big  shadow  was  flung  across  the  path,  followed 
by  its  bulky  owner,  who  eyed  the  car  critically 
but  let  it  pass.  The  silver  moonlight  picked  out 
a  piece  or  two  of  pewter  ornament  on  his  blue 
uniform;  and  as  they  went  by  they  knew  it  was 
a  Serjeant  of  police.  Three  hundred  yards  far- 
ther on  another  policeman  stepped  out  into  the 
road  as  if  to  stop  them,  then  seemed  to  doubt  his 
own  authority  and  stepped  back  again.  The  girl 
was  a  daughter  of  the  rich;  and  this  police  sus- 
picion (under  which  all  the  poor  live  day  and 
night)  stung  her  for  the  first  time  into  speech. 

"  What  can  they  mean  ?  "  she  cried  out  in  a 
kind  of  temper ;  "  this  car's  going  like  a  snail." 

There  was  a  short  silence,  and  then  TurnbuU 
said :  "  It  is  certainly  very  odd ;  you  are  driving 
quietly  enough." 

"  You  are  driving  nobly,"  said  Maclan,  and 
his  words  (which  had  no  meaning  whatever) 
sounded  hoarse  and  ungainly  even  in  his  own 
ears. 

They  passed  the  next  mile  and  a  half  swiftly 
and  smoothly ;  yet  among  the  many  things  which 


172    THE    BALL   AND    THE    CROSS 

they  passed  in  the  course  of  it  was  a  clump  of 
eager  policemen  standing  at  a  cross-road.  As 
they  passed,  one  of  the  policemen  shouted  some- 
thing to  the  others;  but  nothing  else  happened. 
Eight  hundred  yards  farther  on,  Turnbull  stood 
up  suddenly  in  the  swaying  car. 

"  My  God,  Maclan !  "  he  called  out,  showing 
his  first  emotion  of  that  night.  "  I  don't  believe 
it's  the  pace;  it  couldn't  be  the  pace.  I  believe 
it's  us." 

Maclan  sat  motionless  for  a  few  moments  and 
then  turned  up  at  his  companion  a  face  that  was 
as  white  as  the  moon  above  it. 

"  You  may  be  right,"  he  said  at  last;  "  if  you 
are  I  must  tell  her." 

"  I  will  tell  the  lady  if  you  like,"  said  Turnbull, 
with  his  unconquered  good  temper. 

"  You !  "  said  Maclan,  with  a  sort  of  sincere 
and  instinctive  astonishment.  "  Why  should  you 
— no,  I  must  tell  her,  of  course — " 

And  he  leant  forward  and  spoke  to  the  lady 
in  the  fur  cap. 

"  I  am  afraid,  madam,  that  we  may  have  got 
you  into  some  trouble,"  he  said,  and  even  as  he 
said  it  it  sounded  wrong,  like  everything  he  said 
to  this  particular  person   in   the   long  gloves. 


THE    STRANGE    LADY  173 

"  The  fact  is,"  he  resumed,  desperately,  "  the  fact 
is,  we  are  being  chased  by  the  pohce."  Then  the 
last  flattening  hammer  fell  upon  poor  Evan's  em- 
barrassment; for  the  fluffy  brown  head  with  the 
furry  black  cap  did  not  turn  by  a  section  of  the 
compass. 

"  We  are  chased  by  the  police,"  repeated  Mac- 
Ian,  vigorously;  then  he  added,  as  if  beginning  an 
explanation,  "  You  see,  I  am  a  Catholic." 

The  wind  whipped  back  a  curl  of  the  brown 
hair  so  as  to  necessitate  a  new  theory  of  aesthetics 
touching  the  line  of  the  cheek-bone ;  but  the  head 
did  not  turn. 

"  You  see,"  began  Maclan,  again  blunderingly, 
"  this  gentleman  wrote  in  his  newspaper  that  Our 
Lady  was  a  common  woman,  a  bad  woman,  and 
so  we  agreed  to  fight ;  and  we  were  fighting  quite 
a  little  time  ago — but  that  was  before  we  saw 
you." 

The  young  lady  driving  the  car  had  half  turned 
her  face  to  listen ;  and  it  was  not  a  reverent  or  a 
patient  face  that  she  showed  him.  Her  Norman 
nose  was  tilted  a  trifle  too  high  upon  the  slim  stalk 
of  her  neck  and  body. 

When  Maclan  saw  that  arrogant  and  uplifted 
profile  pencilled  plainly  against  the  moonshine,  he 


174    THE    BALL    AND    THE    CROSS 

accepted  an  ultimate  defeat.  He  had  expected 
the  angels  to  despise  him  if  he  were  wrong,  but 
not  to  despise  him  so  much  as  this. 

"  You  see,"  said  the  stumbHng  spokesman,  "  I 
was  angry  with  him  when  he  insulted  the  Mother 
of  God,  and  I  asked  him  to  fight  a  duel  with  me ; 
but  the  police  are  all  trying  to  stop  it." 

Nothing  seemed  to  waver  or  flicker  in  the  fair 
young  falcon  profile;  and  it  only  opened  its  lips 
to  say,  after  a  silence :  "  I  thought  people  in  our 
time  were  supposed  to  respect  each  other's  re- 
ligion." 

Under  the  shadow  of  that  arrogant  face  Mac- 
Ian  could  only  fall  back  on  the  obvious  answer : 
"  But  what  about  a  man's  irreligion  ?  "  The  face 
only  answered :  "  Well,  you  ought  to  be  more 
broadminded." 

If  any  one  else  in  the  world  had  said  the  words, 
Maclan  would  have  snorted  with  his  equine  neigh 
of  scorn.  But  in  this  case  he  seemed  knocked 
down  by  a  superior  simplicity,  as  if  his  eccentric 
attitude  were  rebuked  by  the  innocence  of  a  child. 
He  could  not  dissociate  anything  that  this  woman 
said  or  did  or  wore  from  an  idea  of  spiritual  rar- 
ity and  virtue.  Like  most  others  under  the  same 
elemental  passion,  his  soul  was  at  present  soaked 


THE    STRANGE    LADY  175 

in  ethics.  He  could  have  applied  moral  terms  to 
the  material  objects  of  her  environment.  H 
some  one  had  spoken  of  "  her  generous  ribbon  " 
or  "  her  chivalrous  gloves  "  or  "  her  merciful 
shoe-buckle,"  it  would  not  have  seemed  to  him 
nonsense. 

He  was  silent,  and  the  girl  went  on  in  a  lower 
key  as  if  she  were  momentarily  softened  and  a 
little  saddened  also.  "  It  won't  do,  you  know," 
she  said;  "you  can't  find  out  the  truth  in  that 
way.  There  are  such  heaps  of  churches  and  peo- 
ple thinking  different  things  nowadays,  and  they 
all  think  they  are  right.  My  uncle  was  a  Sweden- 
borgian." 

Maclan  sat  with  bowed  head,  listening  hun- 
grily to  her  voice  but  hardly  to  her  words,  and 
seeing  his  great  world  drama  grow  smaller  and 
smaller  before  his  eyes  till  it  was  no  bigger  than 
a  child's  toy  theatre. 

"  The  time's  gone  by  for  all  that,"  she  went  on; 
"  you  can't  find  out  the  real  thing  like  that — if 
there  is  really  anything  to  find — "  and  she  sighed 
rather  drearily;  for,  like  many  of  the  women  of 
our  wealthy  class,  she  was  old  and  broken  in 
thought,  though  young  and  clean  enough  in  her 
emotions. 


176    THE    BALL   AND    THE    CROSS 

"  Our  object,"  said  Turnbull,  shortly,  "  is  to 
make  an  effective  demonstration  " ;  and  after  that 
word,  Maclan  looked  at  his  vision  again  and 
found  it  smaller  than  ever. 

"  It  would  be  in  the  newspapers,  of  course," 
said  the  girl.  "  People  read  the  newspapers,  but 
they  don't  believe  them,  or  anything  else,  I 
think."    And  she  sighed  again. 

She  drove  in  silence  a  third  of  a  mile  before 
she  added,  as  if  completing  the  sentence :  "  Any- 
how, the  whole  thing's  quite  absurd." 

"I  don't  think,"  began  Turnbull,  "that  you 
quite  realise —  Hullo !  hullo  —  hullo  —  what's 
this?" 

The  amateur  chauffeur  had  been  forced  to 
bring  the  car  to  a  staggering  stoppage,  for  a  file 
of  fat,  blue  policemen  made  a  wall  across  the  way. 
A  Serjeant  came  to  the  side  and  touched  his 
peaked  cap  to  the  lady. 

"  Beg  your  pardon,  miss,"  he  said  with  some 
embarrassment,  for  he  knew  her  for  a  daughter 
of  a  dominant  house,  "  but  we  have  reason  to  be- 
lieve that  the  gentlemen  in  your  car  are — "  and 
he  hesitated  for  a  polite  phrase. 

"  I  am  Evan  Maclan,"  said  that  gentleman, 
and  stood  up  in  a  sort  of  gloomy  pomp,   not 


THE    STRANGE    LADY  177 

wholly  without  a  touch  of  the  sulks  of  a  school- 
boy. 

"  Yes,  we  will  get  out,  serjeant,"  said  Turn- 
bull,  more  easily ;  "  my  name  is  James  Turnbull. 
We  must  not  incommode  the  lady." 

"What  are  you  taking  them  up  for?"  asked  the 
young  woman,  looking  straight  in  front  of  her 
along  the  road. 

*'  It's  under  the  new  act,"  said  the  serjeant,  al- 
most apologetically.  "  Incurable  disturbers  of  the 
peace." 

"  What  will  happen  to  them  ?  "  she  asked,  with 
the  same  frigid  clearness. 

"  Westgate  Adult  Reformatory,"  he  replied, 
briefly. 

"Until  when?" 

"  Until  they  are  cured,"  said  the  official. 

"  Very  well,  serjeant,"  said  the  young  lady, 
with  a  sort  of  tired  common-sense.  "  I  am  sure 
I  don't  want  to  protect  criminals  or  go  against  the 
law;  but  I  must  tell  you  that  these  gentlemen 
have  done  me  a  considerable  service;  you  won't 
mind  drawing  your  men  a  little  farther  off  while 
I  say  good-night  to  them.  Men  like  that  always 
misunderstand." 

The  serjeant  was  profoundly  disquieted  from 


1 78    THE    BALL   AND    THE    CROSS 

the  beginning  at  the  mere  idea  of  arresting  any 
one  in  the  company  of  a  great  lady ;  to  refuse  one 
of  her  minor  requests  was  quite  beyond  his  cour- 
age. The  poHce  fell  back  to  a  few  yards  behind 
the  car.  Turnbull  took  up  the  two  swords  that 
were  their  only  luggage ;  the  swords  that,  after  so 
many  half  duels,  they  were  now  to  surrender  at 
last.  Maclan,  the  blood  thundering  in  his  brain 
at  the  thought  of  that  instant  of  farewell,  bent 
over,  fumbled  at  the  handle  and  flung  open  the 
door  to  get  out. 

But  he  did  not  get  out.  He  did  not  get  out, 
because  it  is  dangerous  to  jump  out  of  a  car  when 
it  is  going  at  full  speed.  And  the  car  was  going 
at  full  speed,  because  the  young  lady,  without 
turning  her  head  or  so  much  as  saying  a  syllable, 
had  driven  down  a  handle  that  made  the  ma- 
chine plunge  forward  like  a  buffalo  and  then  fly 
over  the  landscape  like  a  greyhound.  The  police 
made  one  rush  to  follow,  and  then  dropped  so  gro- 
tesque and  hopeless  a  chase.  Away  in  the  van- 
ishing distance  they  could  see  the  Serjeant  furi- 
ously making  notes. 

The  open  door,  still  left  loose  on  its  hinges, 
swung  and  banged  quite  crazily  as  they  went 
whizzing  up  one  road  and  down  another.     Nor 


THE    STRANGE   LADY  179 

did  Maclan  sit  down;  he  stood  up  stunned  and 
yet  staring,  as  he  would  have  stood  up  at  the 
trumpet  of  the  Last  Day.  A  black  dot  in  the  dis- 
tance sprang  up  a  tall  black  forest,  swallowed 
them  and  spat  them  out  again  at  the  other  end. 
A  railway  bridge  grew  larger  and  larger  till  it 
leapt  upon  their  backs  bellowing,  and  was  in  its 
turn  left  behind.  Avenues  of  poplars  on  both 
sides  of  the  road  chased  each  other  like  the  fig- 
ures in  a  zoetrope.  Now  and  then  with  a  shock 
and  rattle  they  went  through  sleeping  moonlit  vil- 
lages, which  must  have  stirred  an  instant  in  their 
sleep  as  at  the  passing  of  a  fugitive  earthquake. 
Sometimes  in  an  outlying  house  a  light  in  one 
erratic,  unexpected  window  would  give  them  a 
nameless  hint  of  the  hundred  human  secrets  which 
they  left  behind  them  with  their  dust.  Sometimes 
even  a  slouching  rustic  would  be  afoot  on  the 
road  and  would  look  after  them,  as  after  a  flying 
phantom.  But  still  Maclan  stood  up  staring  at 
earth  and  heaven ;  and  still  the  door  he  had  flung 
open  flapped  loose  like  a  flag.  Turnbull,  after  a 
few  minutes  of  dumb  amazement,  had  yielded  to 
the  healthiest  element  in  his  nature  and  gone  off 
into  uncontrollable  fits  of  laughter.  The  girl  had 
not  stirred  an  inch. 


i8o    THE    BALL   AND    THE    CROSS 

After  another  half  mile  that  seemed  a  mere 
flash,  Turnbull  leant  over  and  locked  the  door. 
Evan  staggered  at  last  into  his  seat  and  hid  his 
throbbing  head  in  his  hands ;  and  still  the  car  flew 
on  and  its  driver  sat  inflexible  and  silent.  The 
moon  had  already  gone  down,  and  the  whole 
darkness  was  faintly  troubled  with  twilight  and 
the  first  movement  of  beasts  and  fowls.  It  was 
that  mysterious  moment  when  light  is  coming,  as 
if  it  were  something  unknown  whose  nature  one 
could  not  gness — a  mere  alteration  in  everything. 
They  looked  at  the  sky  and  it  seemed  as  dark  as 
ever ;  then  they  saw  the  black  shape  of  a  tower  or 
tree  against  it  and  knew  that  it  was  already  grey. 
Save  that  they  were  driving  southward  and  had 
certainly  passed  the  longitude  of  London,  they 
knew  nothing  of  their  direction;  but  Turnbull, 
who  had  spent  a  year  on  the  Hampshire  coast  in 
his  youth,  began  to  recognise  the  unmistakable 
but  quite  indescribable  villages  of  the  English 
south.  Then  a  white  witch  fire  began  to  burn  be- 
tween the  black  stems  of  the  fir-trees ;  and,  like  so 
many  things  in  nature,  though  not  in  books  on 
evolution,  the  daybreak,  when  it  did  come,  came 
much  quicker  than  one  would  think.  The  gloomy 
heavens  were  ripped  up  and  rolled  away  like  a 


THE    STRANGE    LADY  i8i 

scroll,  revealing  splendours,  as  the  car  went  roar- 
ing up  the  curve  of  a  great  hill ;  and  above  them 
and  black  against  the  broadening  light,  there 
stood  one  of  those  crouching  and  fantastic  trees 
that  are  first  signals  of  the  sea. 


CHAPTER    X 

THE   SWORDS   REJOINED 

As  they  came  over  the  hill  and  down  on  the 
other  side  of  it,  it  is  not  too  much  to  say  that  the 
whole  universe  of  God  opened  over  them  and 
under  them,  like  a  thing  unfolding  to  five  times 
its  size.  Almost  under  their  feet  opened  the  enor- 
mous sea,  at  the  bottom  of  a  steep  valley  which 
fell  down  into  a  bay ;  and  the  sea  under  their  feet 
blazed  at  them  almost  as  lustrous  and  almost  as 
empty  as  the  sky.  The  sunrise  opened  above  them 
like  some  cosmic  explosion,  shining  and  shatter- 
ing and  yet  silent ;  as  if  the  world  were  blown  to 
pieces  without  a  sound.  Round  the  rays  of  the 
victorious  sun  swept  a  sort  of  rainbow  of  con- 
fused and  conquered  colours — brown  and  blue  and 
green  and  flaming  rose-colour;  as  though  gold 
were  driving  before  it  all  the  colours  of  the 
world.  The  lines  of  the  landscape  down  which 
they  sped,  were  the  simple,  strict,  yet  swerving, 
lines  of  a  rushing  river ;  so  that  it  was  almost  as 
182 


THE    SWORDS    REJOINED         183 

if  they  were  being  sucked  down  in  a  huge  still 
whirlpool.  Turnbull  had  some  such  feeling,  for 
he  spoke  for  the  first  time  for  many  hours. 

"  If  we  go  down  at  this  rate  we  shall  be  over 
the  sea  cliff,"  he  said. 

"  How  glorious !  "  said  Maclan. 

When,  however,  they  had  come  into  the  wide 
hollow  at  the  bottom  of  that  landslide,  the  car 
took  a  calm  and  graceful  curve  along  the  side  of 
the  sea,  melted  into  the  fringe  of  a  few  trees,  and 
quietly,  yet  astonishingly,  stopped.  A  belated 
light  was  burning  in  the  broad  morning  in  the 
window  of  a  sort  of  lodge-  or  gate-keepers'  cot- 
tage ;  and  the  girl  stood  up  in  the  car  and  turned 
her  splendid  face  to  the  sun. 

Evan  seemed  startled  by  the  stillness,  like  one 
who  had  been  born  amid  sound  and  speed.  He 
wavered  on  his  long  legs  as  he  stood  up ;  he  pulled 
himself  together,  and  the  only  consequence  was 
that  he  trembled  from  head  to  foot.  Turnbull 
had  already  opened  the  door  on  his  side  and 
jumped  out. 

The  moment  he  had  done  so  the  strange  young 
woman  had  one  more  mad  movement,  and  delib- 
erately drove  the  car  a  few  yards  farther.  Then 
she  got  out  with  an  almost  cruel  coolness  and 


i84    THE   BALL   AND    THE    CROSS 

began  pulling  off  her  long  gloves  and  almost 
whistling. 

"  You  can  leave  me  here,"  she  said,  quite  casu- 
ally, as  if  they  had  met  five  minutes  before. 
"  That  is  the  lodge  of  my  father's  place.  Please 
come  in,  if  you  like — but  I  understood  that  you 
had  some  business." 

Evan  looked  at  that  lifted  face  and  found  it 
merely  lovely ;  he  M^as  far  too  much  of  a  fool  to 
see  that  it  was  working  with  a  final  fatigue  and 
that  its  austerity  was  agony.  He  was  even  fool 
enough  to  ask  it  a  question.  "  Why  did  you  save 
us?  "  he  said,  quite  humbly. 

The  girl  tore  off  one  of  her  gloves,  as  if  she 
were  tearing  off  her  hand.  "  Oh,  I  don't  know," 
she  said,  bitterly.  "  Now  I  come  to  think  of  it, 
I  can't  imagine." 

Evan's  thoughts,  that  had  been  piled  up  to 
the  morning  star,  abruptly  let  him  down  with  a 
crash  into  the  very  cellars  of  the  emotional  uni- 
verse. He  remained  in  a  stunned  silence  for  a 
long  time ;  and  that,  if  he  had  only  known,  was 
the  wisest  thing  that  he  could  possibly  do  at  the 
moment. 

Indeed,  the  silence  and  the  sunrise  had  their 
healing  effect,  for  when  the  extraordinary  lady 


THE    SWORDS    REJOINED         185 

spoke  again,  her  tone  was  more  friendly  and 
apologetic.  "  I'm  not  really  ungrateful,"  she 
said ;  "  it  was  very  good  of  you  to  save  me  from 
those  men." 

"  But  why  ?  "  repeated  the  obstinate  and  dazed 
Maclan,  "  why  did  you  save  us  from  the  other 
men  ?    I  mean  the  policemen  ?  " 

The  girl's  great  brown  eyes  were  lit  up  with  a 
flash  that  was  at  once  final  desperation  and  the 
loosening  of  some  private  and  passionate  reserve. 

"  Oh,  God  knows !  "  she  cried.  "  God  knows 
that  if  there  is  a  God  He  has  turned  His  big 
back  on  everything.  God  knows  I  have  had  no 
pleasure  in  my  life,  though  I  am  pretty  and 
young  and  father  has  plenty  of  money.  And  then 
people  come  and  tell  me  that  I  ought  to  do  things 
and  I  do  them  and  it's  all  drivel.  They  want  you 
to  do  work  among  the  poor ;  which  means  reading 
Ruskin  and  feeling  self-righteous  in  the  best  room 
in  a  poor  tenement.  Or  to  help  some  cause  or 
other,  which  always  means  bundling  people  out  of 
crooked  houses,  in  which  they've  always  lived, 
into  straight  houses,  in  which  they  quite  as  often 
die.  And  all  the  time  you  have  inside  only  the 
horrid  irony  of  your  own  empty  head  and  empty 
heart.    I  am  to  give  to  the  unfortunate,  when  my 


i86    THE    BALL   AND    THE    CROSS 

whole  misfortune  is  that  I  have  nothing  to  give. 
I  am  to  teach,  vv^hen  I  believe  nothing  of  all  that 
I  was  taught,  I  am  to  save  the  children  from 
death,  and  I  am  not  even  certain  that  I  should  not 
be  better  dead.  I  suppose  if  I  actually  saw  a  child 
drowning  I  should  save  it.  But  that  would  be 
from  the  same  motive  from  which  I  have  saved 
you,  or  destroyed  you,  whichever  it  is  that  I  have 
done." 

"  What  was  the  motive  ?  "  asked  Evan,  in  a 
low  voice. 

"  My  motive  is  too  big  for  my  mind,"  an- 
swered the  girl. 

Then,  after  a  pause,  as  she  stared  with  a  rising 
colour  at  the  glittering  sea,  she  said :  "  It  can't  be 
described,  and  yet  I  am  trying  to  describe  it.  It 
seems  to  me  not  only  that  I  am  unhappy,  but 
that  there  is  no  way  of  being  happy.  Father  is 
not  happy,  though  he  is  a  Member  of  Parlia- 
ment— "  She  paused  a  moment  and  added 
with  the  ghost  of  a  smile :  "  Nor  Aunt  Mabel, 
though  a  man  from  India  has  told  her  the  secret 
of  all  creeds.  But  I  may  be  wrong ;  there  may  be 
a  way  out.  And  for  one  stark,  insane  second,  I 
felt  that,  after  all,  you  had  got  the  way  out  and 
that  was  why  the  world  hated  you.    You  see,  if 


THE    SWORDS    REJOINED         187 

there  were  a  way  out,  it  would  be  sure  to  be 
something  that  looked  very  queer." 

Evan  put  his  hand  to  his  forehead  and  began 
stumbHngly :  "  Yes,  I  suppose  we  do  seem " 

"  Oh,  yes,  you  look  queer  enough,"  she  said, 
with  ringing  sincerity.  "  You'll  be  all  the  better 
for  a  wash  and  brush  up." 

"  You  forget  our  business,  madam,"  said  Evan, 
in  a  shaking  voice ;  "  we  have  no  concern  but  to 
kill  each  other." 

"  Well,  I  wouldn't  be  killed  looking  like  that 
if  I  were  you,"  she  replied,  with  inhuman  honesty. 

Evan  stood  and  rolled  his  eyes  in  masculine 
bewilderment.  Then  came  the  final  change  in 
this  Proteus,  and  she  put  out  both  her  hands  for 
an  instant  and  said  in  a  low  tone  on  which  he 
lived  for  days  and  nights : 

"  Don't  you  understand  that  I  did  not  dare  to 
stop  you  ?  What  you  are  doing  is  so  mad  that  it 
may  be  quite  true.  Somehow  one  can  never 
really  manage  to  be  an  atheist." 

Turnbull  stood  staring  at  the  sea ;  but  his  shoul- 
ders showed  that  he  heard,  and  after  one  minute 
he  turned  his  head.  But  the  girl  had  only  brushed 
Evan's  hand  with  hers  and  had  fled  up  the  dark 
alley  by  the  lodge  gate. 


1 88    THE   BALL   AND    THE    CROSS 

Evan  stood  rooted  upon  the  road,  literally  like 
some  heavy  statue  hewn  there  in  the  age  of  the 
Druids.  It  seemed  impossible  that  he  should  ever 
move.  Turnbull  grew  restless  with  this  rigid- 
ity, and  at  last,  after  calling  his  companion  twice 
or  thrice,  went  up  and  clapped  him  impatiently  on 
one  of  his  big  shoulders,  Evan  winced  and  leapt 
away  from  him  with  a  repulsion  which  was  not 
the  hate  of  an  unclean  thing  nor  the  dread  of  a 
dangerous  one,  but  was  a  spasm  of  awe  and  sepa- 
ration from  something  from  which  he  was  now 
sundered  as  by  the  sword  of  God.  He  did  not 
hate  the  atheist;  it  is  possible  that  he  loved  him. 
But  Turnbull  was  now  something  more  dreadful 
than  an  enemy;  he  was  a  thing  sealed  and  de- 
voted— a  thing  now  hopelessly  doomed  to  be 
either  a  corpse  or  an  executioner. 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  you  ?  "  asked  Turn- 
bull,  with  his  hearty  hand  still  in  the  air ;  and  yet 
he  knew  more  about  it  than  his  innocent  action 
would  allow. 

"  James,"  said  Evan,  speaking  like  one  under 
strong  bodily  pain,  "  I  asked  for  God's  answer 
and  I  have  got  it — got  it  in  my  vitals.  He  knows 
how  weak  I  am,  and  that  I  might  forget  the  peril 
of  the  faith,  forget  the  face  of  Our  Lady — ^yes, 


THE    SWORDS    REJOINED         189 

even  with  your  blow  upon  her  cheek.  But  the 
honour  of  this  earth  has  just  this  about  it,  that  it 
can  make  a  man's  heart  Hke  iron.  I  am  from  the 
Lords  of  the  Isles  and  I  dare  not  be  a  mere  de- 
serter. Therefore,  God  has  tied  me  by  the  chain 
of  my  worldly  place  and  word,  and  there  is  noth- 
ing but  fighting  now." 

"  I  think  I  understand  you,"  said  Turnbull, 
"  but  you  say  everything  tail  foremost." 

"  She  wants  us  to  do  it,"  said  Evan,  in  a  voice 
crushed  with  passion.  "  She  has  hurt  herself  so 
that  we  might  do  it.  She  has  left  her  good  name 
and  her  good  sleep  and  all  her  habits  and  dignity 
flung  away  on  the  other  side  of  England  in  the 
hope  that  she  may  hear  of  us  and  that  we  have 
broken  some  hole  into  heaven." 

"  I  thought  I  knew  what  you  meant,"  said 
Turnbull,  biting  his  beard ;  "  it  does  seem  as  if  we 
ought  to  do  something  after  all  she  has  done  this 
night." 

"  I  never  liked  you  so  much  before,"  said  Mac- 
Ian,  in  bitter  sorrow. 

As  he  spoke,  three  solemn  footmen  came  out  of 
the  lodge  gate  and  assembled  to  assist  the  chauf- 
feur to  his  room.  The  mere  sight  of  them  made 
the  two  wanderers  flee  as  from  a  too  frightful 


igo    THE    BALL   AND    THE    CROSS 

incongruity,  and  before  they  knew  where  they 
were,  they  were  well  upon  the  glassy  ledge  of 
England  that  overlooks  the  Channel.  Evan  said 
suddenly :  "  Will  they  let  me  see  her  in  heaven 
once  in  a  thousand  ages  ?  "  and  addressed  the 
remark  to  the  editor  of  the  "  Atheist,"  as  one 
which  he  would  be  likely  or  qualified  to  answer. 
But  no  answer  came;  a  silence  sank  between  the 
two. 

Turnbull  strode  sturdily  to  the  edge  of  the  cliff 
and  looked  out,  his  companion  following,  some- 
what more  shaken  by  his  recent  agitation. 

"  If  that's  the  view  you  take,"  said  Turnbull, 
"  and  I  don't  say  you  are  wrong,  I  think  I  know 
where  we  shall  be  best  off  for  the  business.  As  it 
happens,  I  know  this  part  of  the  south  coast 
pretty  well.  And  unless  I  am  mistaken  there's  a 
way  down  the  cliff  just  here  which  will  land  us 
on  a  stretch  of  firm  sand  where  no  one  is  likely 

to  follow  us."  vi 

The  Highlander  made  a  gesture  of  assent  and 
came  also  almost  to  the  edge  of  the  precipice. 
The  sunrise,  which  was  broadening  over  sea  and 
shore,  was  one  of  those  rare  and  splendid  ones  in 
which  there  seems  to  be  no  mist  or  doubt,  and 
nothing  but  a  universal  clarification  more  and 


THE    SWORDS    REJOINED         191 

more  complete.  All  the  colours  were  transparent. 
It  seemed  like  a  triumphant  prophecy  of  some 
perfect  world  where  everything  being  innocent 
will  be  intelligible;  a  world  where  even  our 
bodies,  so  to  speak,  may  be  as  of  burning  glass. 
Such  a  world  is  faintly  though  fiercely  figured 
in  the  coloured  windows  of  Christian  architect- 
ure. The  sea  that  lay  before  them  was  like  a 
pavement  of  emerald,  bright  and  almost  brittle; 
the  sky  against  which  its  strict  horizon  hung  was 
almost  absolutely  white,  except  that  close  to  the 
sky  line,  like  scarlet  braids  on  the  hem  of  a  gar- 
ment, lay  strings  of  flaky  cloud  of  so  gleaming 
and  gorgeous  a  red  that  they  seemed  cut  out  of 
some  strange  blood-red  celestial  metal,  of  which 
the  mere  gold  of  this  earth  is  but  a  drab  yellow 
imitation. 

"  The  hand  of  Heaven  is  still  pointing,"  mut- 
tered the  man  of  superstition  to  himself.  "  And 
now  it  is  a  blood-red  hand." 

The  cool  voice  of  his  companion  cut  in  upon 
his  monologue,  calling  to  him  from  a  little  far- 
ther along  the  clifif,  to  tell  him  that  he  had  found 
the  ladder  of  descent.  It  began  as  a  steep  and 
somewhat  greasy  path,  which  then  tumbled  down 
twenty  or  thirty  feet  in  the  form  of  a  fall  of  rough 


192     THE    BALL   AND    THE    CROSS 

stone  steps.  After  that,  there  was  a  rather  awk- 
ward drop  on  to  a  ledge  of  stone  and  then  the 
journey  was  undertaken  easily  and  even  elegantly 
by  the  remains  of  an  ornamental  staircase,  such 
as  might  have  belonged  to  some  long-disused 
watering-place.  All  the  time  that  the  two  trav- 
ellers sank  from  stage  to  stage  of  this  downward 
journey,  there  closed  over  their  heads  living 
bridges  and  caverns  of  the  most  varied  foliage, 
all  of  which  grew  greener,  redder,  or  more 
golden,  in  the  growing  sunlight  of  the  morning. 
Life,  too,  of  the  more  moving  sort  rose  at  the 
sun  on  every  side  of  them.  Birds  whirred  and 
fluttered  in  the  undergrowth,  as  if  imprisoned  in 
green  cages.  Other  birds  were  shaken  up  in  great 
clouds  from  the  tree-tops,  as  if  they  were  blos- 
soms detached  and  scattered  up  to  heaven. 
Animals  which  Turnbull  was  too  much  of  a  Lon- 
doner and  Maclan  too  much  of  a  Northerner  to 
know,  slipped  by  among  the  tangle  or  ran  pat- 
tering up  the  tree-trunks.  Both  the  men,  ac- 
cording to  their  several  creeds,  felt  the  full 
thunder  of  the  psalm  of  life  as  they  had  never 
heard  it  before;  Maclan  felt  God  the  Father,  be- 
nignant in  all  His  energies,  and  Turnbull  that  ul- 
timate anonymous  energy,  that  Natura  Naturans, 


THE    SWORDS    REJOINED         193 

which  is  the  whole  theme  of  Lucretius.  It  was 
down  this  clamorous  ladder  of  life  that  they  went 
down  to  die. 

They  broke  out  upon  a  brown  semicircle  of 
sand,  so  free  from  human  imprint  as  to  justify 
Turnbull's  profession.  They  strode  out  upon  it, 
stuck  their  swords  in  the  sand,  and  had  a  pause 
too  important  for  speech.  TurnbuU  eyed  the 
coast  curiously  for  a  moment,  like  one  awakening 
memories  of  childhood;  then  he  said  abruptly, 
like  a  man  remembering  somebody's  name  :  "  But, 
of  course,  we  shall  be  better  off  still  round  the 
corner  of  Cragness  Point;  nobody  ever  comes 
there  at  all."  And  picking  up  his  sword  again, 
he  began  striding  toward  a  big  bluff  of  the  rocks 
which  stood  out  upon  their  left.  Maclan  fol- 
lowed him  round  the  corner  and  found  himself 
in  what  was  certainly  an  even  finer  fencing  court, 
of  flat,  firm  sand,  enclosed  on  three  sides  by  white 
walls  of  rock,  and  on  the  fourth  by  the  green  wall 
of  the  advancing  sea. 

"  We  are  quite  safe  here,"  said  Turnbull,  and, 
to  the  other's  surprise,  flung  himself  down,  sit- 
ting on  the  brown  beach. 

"  You  see,  I  was  brought  up  near  here,"  he  ex- 
plained.   "  I  was  sent  from  Scotland  to  stop  with 


194    THE    BALL    AND    THE    CROSS 

my  aunt.  It  is  highly  probable  that  I  may  die 
here.    Do  you  mind  if  I  Hght  a  pipe?  " 

"  Of  course,  do  whatever  you  like,"  said  Mac- 
Ian,  with  a  choking-  voice,  and  he  went  and 
walked  alone  by  himself  along  the  wet,  glistening 
sands. 

Ten  minutes  afterward  he  came  back  again, 
white  with  his  own  whirlwind  of  emotions ;  Turn- 
bull  was  quite  cheerful  and  was  knocking  out  the 
end  of  his  pipe. 

"  You  see,  we  have  to  do  it,"  said  Maclan. 
"  She  tied  us  to  it." 

"  Of  course,  my  dear  fellow,"  said  the  other, 
and  leapt  up  as  lightly  as  a  monkey. 

They  took  their  places  gravely  in  the  very  cen- 
tre of  the  great  square  of  sand,  as  if  they  had 
thousands  of  spectators.  Before  saluting,  Mac- 
Ian,  who,  being  a  mystic,  was  one  inch  nearer  to 
Nature,  cast  his  eye  round  the  huge  framework 
of  their  heroic  folly.  The  three  walls  of  rock  all 
leant  a  little  outward,  though  at  various  angles; 
but  this  impression  was  exaggerated  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  incredible  by  the  heavy  load  of  living 
trees  and  thickets  which  each  wall  wore  on  its  top 
like  a  huge  shock  of  hair.  On  all  that  luxurious 
crest  of  life  the  risen  and  victorious  sun  was  beat- 


THE    SWORDS    REJOINED         195 

ing,  burnishing  it  all  like  gold,  and  every  bird  that 
rose  with  that  sunrise  caught  a  light  like  a  star 
upon  it  like  the  dove  of  the  Holy  Spirit.  Imagi- 
native life  had  never  so  much  crowded  upon  Mac- 
Ian.  He  felt  that  he  could  write  whole  books 
about  the  feelings  of  a  single  bird.  He  felt  that 
for  two  centuries  he  would  not  tire  of  being  a 
rabbit.  He  was  in  the  Palace  of  Life,  of  which 
the  very  tapestries  and  curtains  were  alive.  Then 
he  recovered  himself,  and  remembered  his  affairs. 
Both  men  saluted,  and  iron  rang  upon  iron.  It 
was  exactly  at  the  same  moment  that  he  realised 
that  his  enemy's  left  ankle  was  encircled  with  a 
ring  of  salt  water  that  had  crept  up  to  his  feet. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  said  Turnbull,  stop- 
ping an  instant,  for  he  had  grown  used  to  every 
movement  of  his  extraordinary  fellow-traveller's 
face. 

Maclan  glanced  again  at  that  silver  anklet  of 
sea  water  and  then  looked  beyond  at  the  next 
promontory  round  which  a  deep  sea  was  boiling 
and  leaping.  Then  he  turned  and  looked  back 
and  saw  heavy  foam  being  shaken  up  to  heaven 
about  the  base  of  Cragness  Point. 

"  The  sea  has  cut  us  off,"  he  said,  curtly. 

"  I  have  noticed  it,"  said  Turnbull  with  equal 


196    THE    BALL   AND    THE    CROSS 

sobriety.  "  What  view  do  you  take  of  the  devel- 
opment? " 

Evan  threw  away  his  weapon,  and,  as  his  cus- 
tom was,  imprisoned  his  big  head  in  his  hands. 
Then  he  let  them  fall  and  said :  "  Yes,  I  know 
what  it  means ;  and  I  think  it  is  the  fairest  thing. 
It  is  the  finger  of  God — red  as  blood — still  point' 
ing.    But  now  it  points  to  two  graves." 

There  was  a  space  filled  with  the  sound  of  the 
sea,  and  then  Maclan  spoke  again  in  a  voice  pa- 
thetically reasonable :  "  You  see,  we  both  saved 
her — ^and  she  told  us  both  to  fight — and  it  would 
not  be  just  that  either  should  fail  and  fall  alone, 
while  the  other " 

"  You  mean,"  said  Turnbull,  in  a  voice  surpris- 
ingly soft  and  gentle,  "  that  there  is  something 
fine  about  fighting  in  a  place  where  even  the  con- 
queror must  die  ?  " 

"  Oh,  you  have  got  it  right,  you  have  got  it 
right ! "  cried  out  Evan,  in  an  extraordinary 
childish  ecstasy.  "  Oh,  I'm  sure  that  you  really 
believe  in  God !  " 

Turnbull  answered  not  a  word,  but  only  took 
up  his  fallen  sword. 

For  the  third  time  Evan  Maclan  looked  at 
those  three  sides  of  English  cliff  hung  with  their 


THE    SWORDS    REJOINED         197 

noisy  load  of  life.  He  had  been  at  a  loss  to  un- 
derstand the  almost  ironical  magnificence  of  all 
those  teeming  creatures  and  tropical  colours  and 
smells  that  smoked  happily  to  heaven.  But  now 
he  knew  that  he  was  in  the  closed  court  of  death 
and  that  all  the  gates  were  sealed. 

He  drank  in  the  last  g^een  and  the  last  red  and 
the  last  gold,  those  unique  and  indescribable 
things  of  God,  as  a  man  drains  good  wine  at  the 
bottom  of  his  glass.  Then  he  turned  and  saluted 
his  enemy  once  more,  and  the  two  stood  up  and 
fought  till  the  foam  flowed  over  their  knees. 

Then  Maclan  stepped  backward  suddenly  with 
a  splash  and  held  up  his  hand.  "  Turnbull !  "  he 
cried ;  "  I  can't  help  it — fair  fighting  is  more  even 
than  promises.    And  this  is  not  fair  fighting." 

"  What  the  deuce  do  you  mean  ?  "  asked  the 
other,  staring. 

"  I've  only  just  thought  of  it,"  cried  Evan, 
brokenly.  "  We're  very  well  matched — it  may 
go  on  a  good  time — ^the  tide  is  coming  up  fast — 
and  I'm  a  foot  and  a  half  taller.  You'll  be  washed 
away  like  seaweed  before  it's  above  my  breeches. 
I'll  not  fight  foul  for  all  the  girls  and  angels  in 
the  universe." 

"  Will  you  oblige  me,"  said  Turnbull,   with 


198    THE    BALL   AND    THE    CROSS 

staring  grey  eyes  and  a  voice  of  distinct  and  vio- 
lent politeness;  "  will  you  oblige  me  by  jolly  well 
minding  your  own  business?  Just  you  stand  up 
and  fight,  and  we'll  see  who  will  be  washed  away 
like  seaweed.  You  wanted  to  finish  this  fight  and 
you  shall  finish  it,  or  I'll  denounce  you  as  a  cow- 
ard to  the  whole  of  that  assembled  company." 

Evan  looked  very  doubtful  and  offered  a  some- 
what wavering  weapon;  but  he  was  quickly 
brought  back  to  his  senses  by  his  opponent's 
sword-point,  which  shot  past  him,  shaving  his 
shoulder  by  a  hair.  By  this  time  the  waves  were 
well  up  Turnbull's  thigh,  and  what  was  worse, 
they  were  beginning  to  roll  and  break  heavily 
around  them. 

Maclan  parried  this  first  lunge  perfectly,  the 
next  less  perfectly ;  the  third  in  all  human  proba- 
bility he  would  not  have  parried  at  all ;  the  Chris- 
tian champion  would  have  been  pinned  like  a  but- 
terfly, and  the  atheistic  champion  left  to  drown 
like  a  rat,  with  such  consolation  as  his  view  of 
the  cosmos  afforded  him.  But  just  as  Turnbull 
launched  his  heaviest  stroke,  the  sea,  in  which  he 
stood  up  to  his  hips,  launched  a  yet  heavier  one. 
A  wave  breaking  beyond  the  others  smote  him 
heavily  like  a  hammer  of  water.    One  leg  gave 


THE    SWORDS    REJOINED         199 

way,  he  was  swung  round  and  sucked  into  the 
retreating  sea,  still  gripping  his  sword. 

Maclan  put  his  sword  between  his  teeth  and 
plunged  after  his  disappearing  enemy.  He  had 
the  sense  of  having  the  whole  universe  on  top  of 
him  as  crest  after  crest  struck  him  down.  It 
seemed  to  him  quite  a  cosmic  collapse,  as  if  all  the 
seven  heavens  were  falling  on  him  one  after  the 
other.  But  he  got  hold  of  the  atheist's  left  leg 
and  he  did  not  let  it  go. 

After  some  ten  minutes  of  foam  and  frenzy,  in 
which  all  the  senses  at  once  seemed  blasted  by  the 
sea,  Evan  found  himself  laboriously  swimming 
on  a  low,  green  swell,  with  the  sword  still  in  his 
teeth  and  the  editor  of  the  "  Atheist  "  still  under 
his  arm.  What  he  was  going  to  do  he  had  not 
even  the  most  glimmering  idea ;  so  he  merely  kept 
his  grip  and  swam  somehow  with  one  hand. 

He  ducked  instinctively  as  there  bulked  above 
him  a  big,  black  wave,  much  higher  than  any  that 
he  had  seen.  Then  he  saw  that  it  was  hardly  the 
shape  of  any  possible  wave.  Then  he  saw  that  it 
was  a  fisherman's  boat,  and,  leaping  upward, 
caught  hold  of  the  bow.  The  boat  pitched  for- 
ward with  its  stern  in  the  air  for  just  as  much 
time  as  was  needed  to  see  that  there  was  nobody 


200    THE    BALL   AND    THE    CROSS 

in  it.  After  a  moment  or  two  of  desperate  clam- 
bering, however,  there  were  two  people  in  it,  Mr. 
Evan  Maclan,  panting  and  sweating,  and  Mr. 
James  Turnbull,  uncommonly  close  to  being 
drowned.  After  ten  minutes'  aimless  tossing  in 
the  empty  fishing-boat  he  recovered,  however, 
stirred,  stretched  himself,  and  looked  round  on 
the  rolling  waters.  Then,  while  taking  no  notice 
of  the  streams  of  salt  water  that  were  pouring 
from  his  hair,  beard,  coat,  boots,  and  trousers,  he 
carefully  wiped  the  wet  off  his  sword-blade  to 
preserve  it  from  possibilities  of  rust. 

Maclan  found  two  oars  in  the  bottom  of  the 
deserted  boat  and  began  somewhat  drearily  to 
row. 

A  rainy  twilight  was  clearing  to  cold  silver 
over  the  moaning  sea,  when  the  battered  boat  that 
had  rolled  and  drifted  almost  aimlessly  all  night, 
came  within  sight  of  land,  though  of  land  which 
looked  almost  as  lost  and  savage  as  the  waves. 
All  night  there  had  been  but  little  lifting  in  the 
leaden  sea,  only  now  and  then  the  boat  had  been 
heaved  up,  as  on  a  huge  shoulder  which  slipped 
from  under  it;  such  occasional  sea-quakes  came 
probably  from  the  swell  of  some  steamer  that  had 


THE    SWORDS    REJOINED         201 

passed  it  in  the  dark;  otherwise  the  waves  were 
harmless  though  restless.  But  it  was  piercingly 
cold,  and  there  was,  from  time  to  time,  a  splutter 
of  rain  like  the  splutter  of  the  spray,  which 
seemed  almost  to  freeze  as  it  fell.  Maclan,  more 
at  home  than  his  companion  in  this  quite  bar- 
barous and  elemental  sort  of  adventure,  had 
rowed  toilsomely  with  the  heavy  oars  whenever 
he  saw  anything  that  looked  like  land ;  but  for  the 
most  part  had  trusted  with  grim  transcendental- 
ism to  wind  and  tide.  Among  the  implements 
of  their  first  outfit  the  brandy  alone  had  re- 
mained to  him,  and  he  gave  it  to  his  freezing 
companion  in  quantities  which  greatly  alarmed 
that  temperate  Londoner ;  but  Maclan  came  from 
the  cold  seas  and  mists  where  a  man  can  drink  a 
tumbler  of  raw  whiskey  in  a  boat  without  it  mak- 
ing him  wink. 

When  the  Highlander  began  to  pull  really  hard 
upon  the  oars,  Turnbull  craned  his  dripping  red 
head  out  of  the  boat  to  see  the  goal  of  his  exer- 
tions. It  was  a  sufficiently  uninviting  one;  noth- 
ing so  far  as  could  be  seen  but  a  steep  and  shelv- 
ing bank  of  shingle,  made  of  loose  little  pebbles 
such  as  children  like,  but  slanting  up  higher  than  a 
house.    On  the  top  of  the  mound,  against  the  sky 


202    THE    BALL   AND    THE    CROSS 

line,  stood  up  the  brown  skeleton  of  some  broken 
fence  or  break-water.  With  the  grey  and  watery 
dawn  crawling  up  behind  it,  the  fence  really 
seemed  to  say  to  our  philosophic  adventurers 
that  they  had  come  at  last  to  the  other  end  of 
nowhere. 

Bent  by  necessity  to  his  labour,  Maclan  man- 
aged the  heavy  boat  with  real  power  and  skill, 
and  when  at  length  he  ran  it  up  on  a  smoother 
part  of  the  slope  it  caught  and  held  so  that  they 
could  clamber  out,  not  sinking  farther  than  their 
knees  into  the  water  and  the  shingle.  A  foot  or 
two  farther  up  their  feet  found  the  beach  firmer, 
and  a  few  moments  afterward  they  were  leaning 
on  the  ragged  break-water  and  looking  back  at 
the  sea  they  had  escaped. 

They  had  a  dreary  walk  across  wastes  of  grey 
shingle  in  the  grey  dawn  before  they  began  to 
come  within  hail  of  human  fields  or  roads;  nor 
had  they  any  notion  of  what  fields  or  roads  they 
would  be.  Their  boots  were  beginning  to  break 
up  and  the  confusion  of  stones  tried  them  se- 
verely, so  that  they  were  glad  to  lean  on  their 
swords,  as  if  they  were  the  staves  of  pilgrims. 
Maclan  thought  vagnel}'  of  a  weird  ballad  of  his 
own  country  which  describes  the  soul  in  Purga- 


THE    SWORDS    REJOINED         203 

tory  as  walking  on  a  plain  full  of  sharp  stones, 
and  only  saved  by  its  own  charities  upon  earth. 

If  ever  thou  gavest  hosen  and  shoon 

Every  night  and  all, 
Sit  thee  down  and  put  them  on, 

And  Christ  receive  thy  soul. 

Tumbull  had  no  such  lyrical  meditations,  but 
he  was  in  an  even  worse  temper. 

At  length  they  came  to  a  pale  ribbon  of  road. 
edged  by  a  shelf  of  rough  and  almost  colourless 
turf;  and  a  few  feet  up  the  slope  there  stood 
grey  and  weather-stained,  one  of  those  big  way- 
side crucifixes  which  are  seldom  seen  except  in 
Catholic  countries. 

Maclan  put  up  his  hand  to  his  head  and  found 
that  his  bonnet  was  not  there.  Turnbull  gave  one 
glance  at  the  crucifix — a  glance  at  once  sympa- 
thetic and  bitter,  in  which  was  concentrated  the 
whole  of  Swinburne's  poem  on  the  same  occasion. 

O  hidden  face  of  man,  whereover 
The  years  have  woven  a  viewless  veil, 

If  thou  wert  verily  man's  lover 
What  did  thy  love  or  blood  avail? 

Thy  blood  the  priests  mix  poison  of, 

And  in  gold  shekels  coin  thy  love. 


204    THE    BALL   AND    THE    CROSS 

Then,  leaving  Maclan  in  his  attitude  of  prayer, 
Turnbull  began  to  look  right  and  left  very 
sharply,  like  one  looking  for  something.  Sud- 
denly, with  a  little  cry,  he  saw  it  and  ran  forward. 
A  few  yards  from  them  along  the  road  a  lean 
and  starved  sort  of  hedge  came  pitifully  to  an 
end.  Caught  upon  its  prickly  angle,  however, 
there  was  a  very  small  and  very  dirty  scrap  of 
paper  that  might  have  hung  there  for  months, 
since  it  escaped  from  some  one  tearing  up  a  letter 
or  making  a  spill  out  of  a  newspaper.  Turnball 
snatched  at  it  and  found  it  was  the  corner  of  a 
printed  page,  very  coarsely  printed,  like  a  cheap 
novelette,  and  just  large  enough  to  contain  the 
words :  "  et  c'est  elle  qui " 

"  Hurrah !  "  cried  Turnbull,  waving  his  frag- 
ment ;  "  we  are  safe  at  last.  We  are  free  at  last. 
We  are  somewhere  better  than  England  or  Eden 
or  Paradise.  Maclan,  we  are  in  the  Land  of  the 
Duel!" 

"  Where  do  you  say?  "  said  the  other,  looking 
at  him  heavily  and  with  knitted  brows,  like  one 
almost  dazed  with  the  grey  doubts  of  desolate 
twilight  and  drifting  sea. 

"  We  are  in  France !  "  cried  Turnbull,  with  a 
voice  like  a  trumpet,  "  in  the  land  where  things 


THE    SWORDS    REJOINED         205 

really  happen — Tout  arrive  en  France.  We  ar- 
rive in  France.  Look  at  this  little  message,"  and 
he  held  out  the  scrap  of  paper.  "There's  an  omen 
for  you  superstitious  hill  folk.  C'est  elle  qui — 
Mais  oui,  mats  oui,  c'est  elle  qui  sauvera  encore 
le  monde." 

"France!"  repeated  Maclan,  and  his  eyes 
awoke  again  in  his  head  like  large  lamps  lighted. 

"  Yes,  France !  "  said  Turnbull,  and  all  the 
rhetorical  part  of  him  came  to  the  top,  his  face 
growing  as  red  as  his  hair.  "  France,  that  has  al- 
ways been  in  rebellion  for  liberty  and  reason. 
France,  that  has  always  assailed  superstition  with 
the  club  of  Rabelais  or  the  rapier  of  Voltaire. 
France,  at  whose  first  council  table  sits  the  sub- 
lime figure  of  Julian  the  Apostate.  France, 
where  a  man  said  only  the  other  day  those  splen- 
did unanswerable  words  " — with  a  superb  ges- 
ture— "  *  we  have  extinguished  in  heaven  those 
lights  that  men  shall  never  light  again.'  " 

"  No,"  said  Maclan,  in  a  voice  that  shook  with 
a  controlled  passion,  "  but  France,  which  was 
taught  by  St.  Bernard  and  led  to  war  by  Joan  of 
Arc.  France  that  made  the  crusades.  France 
that  saved  the  Church  and  scattered  the  heresies 
by  the  mouths  of  Bossuet  and  Massillon.    France, 


2o6    THE    BALL    AND    THE    CROSS 

which  shows  to-day  the  conquering  march  of 
Catholicism,  as  brain  after  brain  surrenders  to  it, 
Brunetiere,  Coppee,  Hauptmann,  Barres,  Bour- 
get,  Lemaitre." 

"  France !  "  asserted  Turnbull  with  a  sort  of 
rolHcking  self-exaggeration,  very  unusual  with 
him,  "  France,  which  is  one  torrent  of  splendid 
scepticism  from  Abelard  to  Anatole  France." 

"France,"  said  Maclan,  "which  is  one  cataract 
of  clear  faith  from  St.  Louis  to  Our  Lady  of 
Lourdes." 

"  France  at  least/'  cried  Turnbull,  throwing  up 
his  sword  in  schoolboy  triumph,  "  in  which  these 
things  are  thought  about  and  fought  about. 
France,  where  reason  and  religion  clash  in  one 
continual  tournament.  France,  above  all,  where 
men  understand  the  pride  and  passion  which  have 
plucked  our  blades  from  their  scabbards.  Here, 
at  least,  we  shall  not  be  chased  and  spied  on  by 
sickly  parsons  and  greasy  policemen,  because  we 
wish  to  put  our  lives  on  the  game.  Courage,  my 
friend,  we  have  come  to  the  country  of  honour." 

Maclan  did  not  even  notice  the  incongruous 
phrase  "  my  friend,"  but  nodding  again  and 
again,  drew  his  sword  and  flung  the  scabbard  far 
behind  him  in  the  road. 


THE    SWORDS    REJOINED         207 

"  Yes,"  he  cried^  in  a  voice  of  thunder,  "  we 
will  fight  here  and  He  shall  look  on  at  it." 

Turnbull  glanced  at  the  crucifix  with  a  sort  of 
scowling  good-humour  and  then  said :  "  He  may 
look  and  see  His  cross  defeated." 

"  The  cross  cannot  be  defeated,"  said  Maclan, 
"  for  it  is  Defeat." 

A  second  afterward  the  two  bright,  blood- 
thirsty weapons  made  the  sig^  of  the  cross  in 
horrible  parody  upon  each  other. 

They  had  not  touched  each  other  twice,  how- 
ever, when  upon  the  hill,  above  the  crucifix,  there 
appeared  another  horrible  parody  of  its  shape; 
the  figure  of  a  man  who  appeared  for  an  instant 
waving  his  outspread  arms.  He  had  vanished  in 
an  instant;  but  Maclan,  whose  fighting  face  was 
set  that  way,  had  seen  the  shape  momentarily 
but  quite  photographically.  And  while  it  was 
like  a  comic  repetition  of  the  cross,  it  was  also,  in 
that  place  and  hour,  something  more  incredible. 
It  had  been  only  instantaneously  on  the  retina 
of  his  eye;  but  unless  his  eye  and  mind  were 
going  mad  together,  the  figure  was  that  of  an 
ordinary  London  policeman. 

He  tried  to  concentrate  his  senses  on  the  sword- 
play  ;  but  one  half  of  his  brain  was  wrestling  with 


2o8    THE    BALL   AND    THE    CROSS 

the  puzzle;  the  apocalyptic  and  almost  seraphic 
apparition  of  a  stout  constable  out  of  Clapham 
on  top  of  a  dreary  and  deserted  hill  in  France. 
He  did  not,  however,  have  to  puzzle  long.  Be- 
fore the  duellists  had  exchanged  half  a  dozen 
passes,  the  big,  blue  policeman  appeared  once 
more  on  the  top  of  the  hill,  a  palpable  monstrosity 
in  the  eye  of  heaven.  He  was  waving  only  one 
arm  now  and  seemed  to  be  shouting  directions. 
At  the  same  moment  a  mass  of  blue  blocked  the 
corner  of  the  road  behind  the  small,  smart  figure 
of  Turnbull,  and  a  small  company  of  policemen 
in  the  English  uniform  came  up  at  a  kind  of  half- 
military  double. 

Turnbull  saw  the  stare  of  consternation  in  his 
enemy's  face  and  swung  round  to  share  its  cause. 
When  he  saw  it,  cool  as  he  was,  he  staggered 
back, 

"  What  the  devil  are  you  doing  here  ?  "  he 
called  out  in  a  high,  shrill  voice  of  authority,  like 
one  who  finds  a  tramp  in  his  own  larder. 

"  Well,  sir,"  said  the  serjeant  in  command, 
with  that  sort  of  heavy  civility  shown  only  to  the 
evidently  guilty,  "  seems  to  me  we  might  ask 
what  are  you  doing  here?  " 

"  We  are  having  an  affair  of  honour,"  said 


THE    SWORDS    REJOINED         209 

Turnbull,  as  if  it  were  the  most  rational  thing  in 
the  world.  "If  the  French  police  like  to  inter- 
fere, let  them  interfere.  But  why  the  blue  blazes 
should  you  interfere,  you  great  blue  blundering 
sausages?  " 

"  I'm  afraid,  sir,"  said  the  serjeant  with  re- 
straint, "  I'm  afraid  I  don't  quite  follow  you." 

"  I  mean,  why  don't  the  French  police  take  this 
up  if  it's  got  to  be  taken  up?  I  always  heard  that 
they  were  spry  enough  in  their  own  way." 

"  Well,  sir,"  said  the  serjeant,  reflectively, 
"  you  see,  sir,  the  French  police  don't  take  this  up 
— well,  because  you  see,  sir,  this  ain't  France. 
This  is  His  Majesty's  dominions,  same  as  'Amp- 
stead  'eath." 

"  Not  France  ?  "  repeated  Turnbull,  with  a  sort 
of  dull  incredulity. 

"  No,  sir,"  said  the  serjeant ;  "  though  most  of 
the  people  talk  French.  This  is  the  island  called 
St.  Loup,  sir,  an  island  in  the  Channel.  We've 
been  sent  down  specially  from  London,  as  you 
were  such  specially  distinguished  criminals,  if 
you'll  allow  me  to  say  so.  Which  reminds  me 
to  warn  you  that  anything  you  say  may  be  used 
against  you  at  your  trial." 

"  Quite  so,"  said  Turnbull,  and  lurched  sud- 


2IO    THE    BALL    AND    THE    CROSS 

-  denly  against  the  serjeaiit,  so  as  to  tip  him  over 
the  edge  of  the  road  with  a  crash  into  the  shingle 
below.  Then  leaving  Maclan  and  the  policemen 
equally  and  instantaneously  nailed  to  the  road, 
he  ran  a  little  way  along  it,  leapt  off  on  to  a  part 
of  the  beach,  which  he  had  found  in  his  journey 
to  be  firmer,  and  went  across  it  with  a  clatter  of 
pebbles.  His  sudden  calculation  was  successful; 
the  police,  unacquainted  with  the  various  levels 
of  the  loose  beach,  tried  to  overtake  him  by  the 
shorter  cut  and  found  themselves,  being  heavy 
men,  almost  up  to  their  knees  in  shoals  of  slippery 
shingle.  Two  who  had  been  slower  with  their 
bodies  were  quicker  with  their  minds,  and  seeing 
Turnbull's  trick,  ran  along  the  edge  of  the  road 
after  him.  Then  Maclan  finally  awoke,  and 
leaving  half  his  sleeve  in  the  grip  of  the  only  man 
who  tried  to  hold  him,  took  the  two  policemen  in 
the  small  of  their  backs  with  the  impetus  of  a 
cannon-ball  and,  sending  them  also  flat  among  the 
stones,  went  tearing  after  his  twin  defier  of  the 
law. 

As  they  were  both  good  runners,  the  start  they 
had  gained  was  decisive.  They  dropped  over  a 
high  break-water  farther  on  upon  the  beach, 
turned  sharply,  and  scrambled  up  a  line  of  ribbed 


THE    SWORDS    REJOINED         211 

rocks,  crowned  with  a  thicket,  crawled  through 
it,  scratching  their  hands  and  faces,  and  dropped 
into  another  road;  and  there  found  that  they 
could  slacken  their  speed  into  a  steady  trot.  In 
all  this  desperate  dart  and  scramble,  they  still 
kept  hold  of  their  drawn  swords,  which  now, 
indeed,  in  the  vigorous  phrase  of  Bunyan,  seemed 
almost  to  grow  out  of  their  hands. 

They  had  run  another  half  mile  or  so  when  it 
became  apparent  that  they  were  entering  a  sort  of 
scattered  village.  One  or  two  whitewashed  cot- 
tages and  even  a  shop  had  appeared  along  the 
side  of  the  road.  Then,  for  the  first  time.  Turn- 
bull  twisted  round  his  red  beard  to  get  a  glimpse 
of  his  companion,  who  was  a  foot  or  two  behind, 
and  remarked  abruptly :  "  Mr,  Maclan,  we've 
been  going  the  wrong  way  to  work  all  along. 
We're  traced  everywhere,  because  everybody 
knows  about  us.  It's  as  if  one  went  about  with 
Kruger's  beard  on  Mafeking  Night," 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  said  Maclan,  inno- 
cently. 

"  I  mean,"  said  Turnbull,  with  steady  convic- 
tion, "  that  what  we  want  is  a  little  diplomacy, 
and  I  am  going  to  buy  some  in  a  shop," 


CHAPTER    XI 

A    SCANDAL   IN    THE    VILLAGE 

In  the  little  hamlet  of  Haroc,  in  the  Isle  of 
St.  Loup,  there  lived  a  man  who — though  living 
under  the  English  flag — was  absolutely  typical  of 
the  French  tradition.  He  was  quite  unnoticeable, 
but  that  was  exactly  where  he  was  quite  himself. 
He  was  not  even  extraordinarily  French;  but 
then  it  is  against  the  French  tradition  to  be 
extraordinarily  French.  Ordinary  Englishmen 
would  only  have  thought  him  a  little  old-fash- 
ioned; imperialistic  Englishmen  would  really 
have  mistaken  him  for  the  old  John  Bull  of  the 
caricatures.  He  was  stout;  he  was  quite  undis- 
tinguished; and  he  had  side  whiskers,  worn  just 
a  little  longer  than  John  Bull's.  He  was  by  name 
Pierre  Durand ;  he  was  by  trade  a  wine  merchant ; 
he  was  by  politics  a  conservative  republican;  he 
had  been  brought  up  a  Catholic,  had  always 
thought  and  acted  as  an  agnostic,  and  was  very 
mildly  returning  to  the  Church  in  his  later  years. 


A    SCANDAL    IN    THE   VILLAGE     213 

He  had  a  genius  (if  one  can  even  use  so  wild  a 
word  in  connection  with  so  tame  a  person)  a 
genius  for  saying  the  conventional  thing  on  every 
conceivable  subject;  or  rather  what  we  in  Eng- 
land would  call  the  conventional  thing.  For  it 
was  not  convention  with  him,  but  solid  and  manly 
conviction.  Convention  implies  cant  or  affecta- 
tion, and  he  had  not  the  faintest  smell  of  either. 
He  was  simply  an  ordinary  citizen  with  ordinary 
views;  and  if  you  had  told  him  so  he  would  have 
taken  it  as  an  ordinary  compliment.  If  you  had 
asked  him  about  women,  he  would  have  said  that 
one  must  preserve  their  domesticity  and  deco- 
rum; he  would  have  used  the  stalest  words,  but 
he  would  have  in  reserve  the  strongest  argu- 
ments. If  you  had  asked  him  about  government, 
he  would  have  said  that  all  citizens  were  free  and 
equal,  but  he  would  have  meant  what  he  said.  If 
you  had  asked  him  about  education,  he  would 
have  said  that  the  young  must  be  trained  up  in 
habits  of  industry  and  of  respect  for  their  parents. 
Still  he  would  have  set  them  the  example  of  in- 
dustry, and  he  would  have  been  one  of  the  parents 
whom  they  could  respect.  A  state  of  mind  so 
hopelessly  central  is  depressing  to  the  English  in- 
stinct.    But  then  in  England  a  man  announcing 


214    THE    BALL    AND    THE    CROSS 

these  platitudes  is  generally  a  fool  and  a  fright- 
ened fool,  announcing  them  out  of  mere  social 
servility.  But  Durand  was  anything  but  a  fool ; 
he  had  read  all  the  eighteenth  century,  and  could 
have  defended  his  platitudes  round  every  angle 
of  eighteenth-century  argument.  And  certainly 
he  was  anything  but  a  coward :  swollen  and  sed- 
entary as  he  was,  he  could  have  hit  any  man  back 
who  touched  him  with  the  instant  violence  of  an 
automatic  machine;  and  dying  in  a  uniform 
would  have  seemed  to  him  only  the  sort  of  thing 
that  sometimes  happens.  I  am  afraid  it  is  impos- 
sible to  explain  this  monster  amid  the  exaggera- 
tive sects  and  the  eccentric  clubs  of  my  country. 
He  was  merely  a  man. 

He  lived  in  a  little  villa  which  was  furnished 
well  with  comfortable  chairs  and  tables  and 
highly  uncomfortable  classical  pictures  and  me- 
dallions. The  art  in  his  home  contained  nothing 
between  the  two  extremes  of  hard,  meagre  de- 
signs of  Greek  heads  and  Roman  togas,  and  on 
the  other  side  a  few  very  vulgar  Catholic  images 
in  the  crudest  colours ;  these  were  mostly  in  his 
daughter's  room.  He  had  recently  lost  his  wife, 
whom  he  had  loved  heartily  and  rather  heavily 
in  complete  silence,  and  upon  whose  grave  he  was 


A    SCANDAL    IN    THE    VILLAGE     215 

constantly  in  the  habit  of  placing  hideous  little 
wreaths,  made  out  of  a  sort  of  black-and-white 
beads.  To  his  only  daughter  he  was  equally  de- 
voted, though  he  restricted  her  a  good  deal  under 
a  sort  of  theoretic  alarm  about  her  innocence ;  an 
alarm  which  was  peculiarly  unnecessary,  first, 
because  she  was  an  exceptionally  reticent  and  re- 
ligious girl,  and  secondly,  because  there  was 
hardly  anybody  else  in  the  place. 

Madeleine  Durand  was  physically  a  sleepy 
young  woman,  and  might  easily  have  been  sup- 
posed to  be  morally  a  lazy  one.  It  is,  however, 
certain  that  the  work  of  her  house  was  done 
somehow,  and  it  is  even  more  rapidly  ascertain- 
able that  nobody  else  did  it.  The  logician  is, 
therefore,  driven  back  upon  the  assumption  that 
she  did  it ;  and  that  lends  a  sort  of  mysterious  in- 
terest to  her  personality  at  the  beginning.  She 
had  very  broad,  low,  and  level  brows,  which 
seemed  even  lower  because  her  warm  yellow  hair 
clustered  down  to  her  eyebrows;  and  she  had  a 
face  just  plump  enough  not  to  look  as  powerful 
as  it  was.  Anything  that  was  heavy  in  all  this 
was  abruptly  lightened  by  two  large,  light  china- 
blue  eyes,  lightened  all  of  a  sudden  as  if  it  had 
been  lifted  into  the  air  by  two  big  blue  butterflies. 


2i6    THE    BALL   AND    THE    CROSS 

The  rest  of  her  was  less  than  middle-sized,  and 
was  of  a  casual  and  comfortable  sort ;  and  she  had 
this  difference  from  such  girls  as  the  girl  in  the 
motor-car,  that  one  did  not  incline  to  take  in  her 
figure  at  all,  but  only  her  broad  and  leonine  and 
innocent  head. 

Both  the  father  and  the  daughter  were  of  the 
sort  that  would  normally  have  avoided  all  ob- 
servation ;  that  is,  all  observation  in  that  extraor- 
dinary modern  world  which  calls  out  everything 
except  strength.  Both  of  them  had  strength 
below  the  surface;  they  were  like  quiet  peasants 
owning  enormous  and  unquarried  mines.  The 
father  with  his  square  face  and  gray  side 
whiskers,  the  daughter  with  her  square  face  and 
golden  fringe  of  hair,  were  both  stronger  than 
they  knew ;  stronger  than  any  one  knew.  The 
father  believed  in  civilisation,  in  the  storied  tower 
w^e  have  erected  to  affront  nature ;  that  is,  the 
father  believed  in  Man.  The  daughter  believed 
in  God ;  and  was  even  stronger.  They  neither  of 
them  believed  in  themselves;  for  that  is  a  deca- 
dent weakness. 

The  daughter  was  called  a  devotee.  She  left 
upon  ordinary  people  the  impression — the  some- 
what irritating  impression — produced  by  such  a 


A    SCANDAL    IN    THE    VILLAGE     217 

person;  it  can  only  be  described  as  the  sense 
of  strong  water  being  perpetually  poured  into 
some  abyss.  She  did  her  housework  easily;  she 
achieved  her  social  relations  sweetly;  she  was 
never  neglectful  and  never  unkind.  This  ac- 
counted for  all  that  was  soft  in  her,  but  not  for 
all  that  was  hard.  She  trod  firmly  as  if  going 
somewhere ;  she  flung  her  face  back  as  if  defying 
something;  she  hardly  spoke  a  cross  word,  yet 
there  was  often  battle  in  her  eyes.  The  modern 
man  asked  doubtfully  where  all  this  silent  energy 
went  to.  He  would  have  stared  still  more  doubt- 
fully if  he  had  been  told  that  it  all  went  into  her 
prayers. 

The  conventions  of  the  Isle  of  St.  Loup  were 
necessarily  a  compromise  or  confusion  between 
those  of  France  and  England ;  and  it  was  vaguely 
possible  for  a  respectable  young  lady  to  have  half- 
attached  lovers,  in  a  way  that  would  be  impossible 
in  the  bourgeoisie  of  France.  One  man  in  par- 
ticular had  made  himself  an  unmistakable  figure 
in  the  track  of  this  girl  as  she  went  to  church. 
He  was  a  short,  prosperous-looking  man,  whose 
long,  bushy  black  beard  and  clumsy  black  um- 
brella made  him  seem  both  shorter  and  older  than 
he  really  was ;  but  whose  big,  bold  eyes,  and  step 


2i8    THE    BALL    AND    THE    CROSS 

that  spurned  the  ground,  gave  him  an   instant 
character  of  youth. 

His  name  was  Camille  Bert,  and  he  was  a  com- 
mercial traveller  who  had  only  been  in  the  island 
an  idle  week  before  he  began  to  hover  in  the 
tracks  of  Madeleine  Durand.  Since  every  one 
knows  every  one  in  so  small  a  place,  Madeleine 
certainly  knew  him  to  speak  to ;  but  it  is  not  very 
evident  that  she  ever  spoke.  He  haunted  her, 
however ;  especially  at  church,  which  was,  indeed, 
one  of  the  few  certain  places  for  finding  her.  In 
her  home  she  had  a  habit  of  being  invisible,  some- 
times through  insatiable  domesticity,  sometimes 
through  an  equally  insatiable  solitude.  M.  Bert 
did  not  give  the  impression  of  a  pious  man, 
though  he  did  give,  especially  with  his  eyes,  the 
impression  of  an  honest  one.  But  he  went  to 
Mass  with  a  simple  exactitude  that  could  not  be 
mistaken  for  a  pose,  or  even  for  a  vulgar  fascina- 
tion. It  was  perhaps  this  religious  regularity 
which  eventually  drew  Madeleine  into  recogni- 
tion of  him.  At  least  it  is  certain  that  she  twice 
spoke  to  him  with  her  square  and  open  smile  in 
the  porch  of  the  church;  and  there  was  human 
nature  enough  in  the  hamlet  to  turn  even  that 
into  gossip. 


A    SCANDAL    IN    THE    VILLAGE     219 

But  the  real  interest  arose  suddenly  as  a  squall 
arises  with  the  extraordinary  affair  that  occurred 
about  five  days  after.  There  was  about  a  third 
of  a  mile  beyond  the  village  of  Haroc  a  large 
but  lonel)^  hotel  upon  the  London  or  Paris  model, 
but  commonly  almost  entirely  empty.  Among 
the  accidental  group  of  guests  who  had  come  to 
it  at  this  season  was  a  man  whose  nationality 
no  one  could  fix  and  who  bore  the  non-committal 
name  of  Count  Gregory.  He  treated  everybody 
with  complete  civility  and  almost  in  complete 
silence.  On  the  few  occasions  when  he  spoke,  he 
spoke  either  French,  English,  or  once  (to  the 
priest)  Latin;  and  the  general  opinion  was  that 
he  spoke  them  all  wrong.  He  was  a  large,  lean 
man,  with  the  stoop  of  an  aged  eagle,  and  even 
the  eagle's  nose  to  complete  it;  he  had  old-fash- 
ioned military  whiskers  and  moustache  dyed  with 
a  garish  and  highly  incredible  yellow.  He  had 
the  dress  of  a  showy  gentleman  and  the  manners 
of  a  decayed  gentleman;  he  seemed  (as  wnth  a 
sort  of  simplicity)  to  be  trying  to  be  a  dandy 
when  he  was  too  old  even  to  know  that  he  was 
old.  Yet  he  was  decidedly  a  handsome  figure 
with  his  curled  yellow  hair  and  lean  fastidious 
face ;  and  he  wore  a  peculiar  frock-coat  of  bright 


220    THE    BALL   AND    THE    CROSS 

turquoise  blue,  with  an  unknown  order  pinned  to 
it,  and  he  carried  a  huge  and  heavy  cane.  Despite 
his  silence  and  his  dandified  dress  and  whiskers, 
the  island  might  never  have  heard  of  him  but  for 
the  extraordinary  event  of  which  I  have  spoken, 
which  fell  about  in  the  following  way : 

In  such  casual  atmospheres  only  the  enthu- 
siastic go  to  Benediction;  and  as  the  warm  blue 
twilight  closed  over  the  little  candle-lit  church 
and  village,  the  line  of  worshippers  who  went 
home  from  the  former  to  the  latter  thinned  out 
until  it  broke.  On  one  such  evening  at  least  no 
one  was  in  church  except  the  quiet,  unconquerable 
Madeleine,  four  old  women,  one  fisherman,  and, 
of  course,  the  irrepressible  M.  Camille  Bert. 
The  others  seemed  to  melt  away  afterward  into 
the  peacock  colours  of  the  dim  green  grass  and 
the  dark  blue  sky.  Even  Durand  was  invisible 
instead  of  being  merely  reverentially  remote ;  and 
Madeleine  set  forth  through  the  patch  of  black 
forest  alone.  She  was  not  in  the  least  afraid  of 
loneliness,  because  she  was  not  afraid  of  devils. 
I  think  they  were  afraid  of  her. 

In  a  clearing  of  the  wood,  however,  which  was 
lit  up  with  a  last  patch  of  the  perishing  sunlight, 
there  advanced  upon  her  suddenly  one  who  was 


A    SCANDAL    IN    THE    VILLAGE     221 

more  startling  than  a  devil.  The  incomprehensi- 
ble Count  Gregory,  with  his  yellow  hair  like 
flame  and  his  face  like  the  white  ashes  of  the 
flame,  was  advancing  bareheaded  toward  her, 
flinging  out  his  arms  and  his  long  fingers  with  a 
frantic  gesture. 

"  We  are  alone  here,"  he  cried,  "  and  you 
would  be  at  my  mercy,  only  that  I  am  at  yours." 

Then  his  frantic  hands  fell  by  his  sides  and  he 
looked  up  under  his  brows  with  an  expression 
that  went  well  with  his  hard  breathing.  Made- 
leine Durand  had  come  to  a  halt  at  first  in  child- 
ish wonder,  and  now,  with  more  than  masculine 
self-control,  "  I  fancy  I  know  your  face,  sir,"  she 
said,  as  if  to  gain  time. 

"  I  know  I  shall  not  forget  yours,"  said  the 
other,  and  extended  once  more  his  ungainly  arms 
in  an  unnatural  gesture.  Then  of  a  sudden  there 
came  out  of  him  a  spout  of  wild  and  yet  pompous 
phrases.  "  It  is  as  well  that  you  should  know  the 
worst  and  the  best.  I  am  a  man  who  knows  no 
limit ;  I  am  the  most  callous  of  criminals,  the  most 
unrepentant  of  sinners.  There  is  no  man  in  my 
dominions  so  vile  as  I.  But  my  dominions  stretch 
from  the  olives  of  Italy  to  the  fir-woods  of  Den- 
mark, and  there  is  no  nook  of  all  of  them  in 


222    THE    BALL   AND    THE    CROSS 

which  I  have  not  done  a  sin.  But  when  I  bear 
you  away  I  shall  be  doing  my  first  sacrilege,  and 
also  my  first  act  of  virtue."  He  seized  her  sud- 
denly by  the  elbow;  and  she  did  not  scream  but 
only  pulled  and  tugged.  Yet  though  she  had  not 
screamed,  some  one  astray  in  the  woods  seemed 
to  have  heard  the  struggle.  A  short  but  nimble 
figure  came  along  the  woodland  path  like  a  hum- 
ming bullet  and  had  caught  Count  Gregory  a 
crack  across  the  face  before  his  own  could  be  rec- 
ognised. When  it  was  recognised  it  was  that  of 
Camille,  with  the  black  elderly  beard  and  the 
young  ardent  eyes. 

Up  to  the  moment  when  Camille  had  hit  the 
Count,  Madeleine  had  entertained  no  doubt  that 
the  Count  was  merely  a  madman.  Now  she  was 
startled  with  a  new  sanity ;  for  the  tall  man  in  the 
yellow  whiskers  and  yellow  moustache  first  re- 
turned the  blow  of  Bert,  as  if  it  were  a  sort  of 
duty,  and  then  stepped  back  with  a  slight  bow  and 
an  easy  smile. 

"  This  need  go  no  further  here.  M.  Bert,"  he 
said.  "  I  need  not  remind  you  how  far  it  should 
go  elsewhere." 

"  Certainly,  you  need  remind  me  of  nothing," 
answered  Camille,  stolidly.     "  I  am  glad  that  you 


A    SCANDAL    IN    THE    VILLAGE     223 

are  just  not  too  much  of  a  scoundrel  for  a  gentle- 
man to  fight," 

"  We  are  detaining  the  lady,"  said  Count  Greg- 
ory, with  politeness;  and,  making  a  gesture  sug- 
gesting that  he  would  have  taken  off  his  hat  if  he 
had  had  one,  he  strode  away  up  the  avenue  of 
trees  and  eventually  disappeared.  He  was  so 
complete  an  aristocrat  that  he  could  offer  his  back 
to  them  all  the  way  up  that  avenue ;  and  his  back 
never  once  looked  uncomfortable. 

"  You  must  allow  me  to  see  you  home,"  said 
Bert  to  the  girl,  in  a  gruff  and  almost  stifled 
voice;  "  I  think  we  have  only  a  little  way  to  go." 

"  Only  a  little  way,"  she  said,  and  smiled  once 
more  that  night,  in  spite  of  fatigue  and  fear  and 
the  world  and  the  flesh  and  the  devil.  The  glow- 
ing and  transparent  blue  of  twilight  had  long 
been  covered  by  the  opaque  and  slatelike  blue  of 
night,  when  he  handed  her  into  the  lamplit  inte- 
rior of  her  home.  He  went  out  himself  into  the 
darkness,  walking  sturdily,  but  tearing  at  his 
black  beard. 

All  the  French  or  semi-French  gentry  of  the 
district  considered  this  a  case  in  which  a  duel  was 
natural  and  inevitable,  and  neither  party  had  any 
difficulty  in   finding  seconds,   strangers  as   they 


224    THE    BALL    AND    THE    CROSS 

were  in  the  place.  Two  small  landowners,  who 
were  careful,  practising  Catholics,  willingly  un- 
dertook to  represent  that  strict  church-goer  Ca- 
mille  Bert;  while  the  profligate  but  apparently- 
powerful  Count  Gregory  found  friends  in  an  en- 
ergetic local  doctor  who  was  ready  for  social  pro- 
motion and  an  accidental  Californian  tourist 
who  was  ready  for  anything.  As  no  particular 
purpose  could  be  served  by  delay,  it  was  arranged 
that  the  affair  should  fall  out  three  days  after- 
ward. And  when  this  was  settled  the  whole  com- 
munity, as  it  were,  turned  over  again  in  bed  and 
thought  no  more  about  the  matter.  At  least  there 
was  only  one  member  of  it  who  seemed  to  be  rest- 
less, and  that  was  she  who  was  commonly  most 
restful.  On  the  next  night  Madeleine  Durand 
went  to  church  as  usual ;  and  as  usual  the  stricken 
Camille  was  there  also.  What  was  not  so  usual 
was  that  when  they  were  a  bow-shot  from  the 
church  Madeleine  turned  round  and  walked  back 
to  him.  "  Sir,"  she  began,  "  it  is  not  wrong  of 
me  to  speak  to  you,"  and  the  very  words  gave 
him  a  jar  of  unexpected  truth ;  for  in  all  the  nov- 
els he  had  ever  read  she  would  have  begun :  "  It 
is  wrong  of  me  to  speak  to  you."  She  went  on 
with  wide  and  serious  eyes  like  an  animal's :  "  It 


A    SCANDAL    IN    THE   VILLAGE     225 

is  not  wrong  of  me  to  speak  to  you,  because  your 
soul,  or  anybody's  soul,  matters  so  much  more 
than  what  the  world  says  about  anybody.  I  want 
to  talk  to  you  about  what  you  are  going  to  do." 

Bert  saw  in  front  of  him  the  inevitable  heroine 
of  the  novels  trying  to  prevent  bloodshed;  and 
his  pale  firm  face  became  implacable. 

"  I  would  do  anything  but  that  for  you,"  he 
said ;  "  but  no  man  can  be  called  less  than  a  man." 

She  looked  at  him  for  a  moment  with  a  face 
openly  puzzled,  and  then  broke  into  an  odd  and 
beautiful  half  smile. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  mean  that,"  she  said ;  "  I  don't 
talk  about  what  I  don't  understand.  No  one  has 
ever  hit  me ;  and  if  they  had  I  should  not  feel  as 
a  man  may.  I  am  sure  it  is  not  the  best  thing 
to  fight.  It  would  be  better  to  forgive — if  one 
could  really  forgive.  But  when  people  dine  with 
my  father  and  say  that  fighting  a  duel  is  mere 
murder — of  course  I  can  see  that  is  not  just. 
It's  all  so  different — having  a  reason — and  let- 
ting the  other  man  know — and  using  the  same 
guns  and  things — and  doing  it  in  front  of  your 
friends.  I'm  awfully  stupid,  but  I  know  that 
men  like  you  aren't  murderers.  But  it  wasn't 
that  that  I  meant." 


226    THE    BALL    AND    THE    CROSS 

"  What  did  you  mean  ?  "  asked  the  other,  look- 
ing broodingly  at  the  earth. 

"  Don't  you  know,''  she  said,  "  there  is  only 
one  more  celebration  ?  I  thought  that  as  you  al- 
ways go  to  church — I  thought  you  would  com- 
municate this  morning." 

Bert  stepped  backward  with  a  sort  of  action 
she  had  never  seen  in  him  before.  It  seemed  to 
alter  his  whole  body. 

"  You  may  be  right  or  wrong  to  risk  dying," 
said  the  girl,  simply ;  "  the  poor  women  in  our 
village  risk  it  whenever  they  have  a  baby.  You 
men  are  the  other  half  of  the  world.  I  know 
nothing  about  when  you  ought  to  die.  But  surely 
if  you  are  daring  to  try  and  find  God  beyond  the 
grave  and  appeal  to  Him — you  ought  to  let  Him 
find  you  when  He  comes  and  stands  there  every 
morning  in  our  little  church." 

And  placid  as  she  was,  she  made  a  little  gesture 
of  argument,  of  which  the  pathos  wrung  the 
heart. 

M.  Camille  Bert  was  by  no  means  placid.  Be- 
fore that  incomplete  gesture  and  frankly  plead- 
ing face  he  retreated  as  if  from  the  jaws  of  a 
dragon.  His  dark  black  hair  and  beard  looked 
utterly  unnatural  against  the  startling  pallor  of 


A    SCANDAL    IN    THE    VILLAGE     227 

his  face.  When  at  last  he  said  something  it  was  : 
"  O  God !  I  can't  stand  this !  "  He  did  not  say 
it  in  French,  Nor  did  he,  strictly  speaking,  say  it 
in  English,  The  truth  (interesting  only  to  an- 
thropologists) is  that  he  said  it  in  Scotch. 

"  There  will  be  another  mass  in  a  matter  of 
eight  hours,"  said  Madeleine,  with  a  sort  of  busi- 
ness eagerness  and  energy,  "  and  you  can  do  it 
then  before  the  fighting.  You  must  forgive  me, 
but  I  was  so  frightened  that  you  would  not  do  it 
at  all." 

Bert  seemed  to  crush  his  teeth  together  until 
they  broke,  and  managed  to  say  between  them : 
"  And  why  should  you  suppose  that  I  shouldn't 
do  as  you  say — I  mean  not  do  it  at  all  ?  " 

"  You  always  go  to  Mass,"  answered  the  girl, 
opening  her  wide  blue  eyes,  "  and  the  Mass  is 
very  long  and  tiresome  unless  one  loves  God," 

Then  it  was  that  Bert  exploded  with  a  brutal- 
ity which  might  have  come  from  Count  Gregory, 
his  criminal  opponent.  He  advanced  upon  Made- 
leine with  flaming  eyes,  and  almost  took  her  by  the 
two  shoulders.  "  I  do  not  love  God,"  he  cried, 
speaking  French  with  the  broadest  Scotch  accent ; 
"  I  do  not  want  to  find  Him ;  I  do  not  think  He  is 
there  to  be  found.     I  must  burst  up  the  show ;  I 


228    THE    BALL   AND    THE    CROSS 

must  and  will  say  everything.  You  are  the  hap- 
piest and  honestest  thing  I  ever  saw  in  this  god- 
less universe.  And  I  am  the  dirtiest  and  most 
dishonest." 

Madeleine  looked  at  him  doubtfully  for  an  in- 
stant, and  then  said  with  a  sudden  simplicity  and 
cheerfulness :  "  Oh,  but  if  you  are  really  sorry  it 
is  all  right.  If  you  are  horribly  sorry  it  is  all 
the  better.  You  have  only  to  go  and  tell  the 
priest  so  and  he  will  give  you  God  out  of  his  own 
hands." 

"  I  hate  your  priest  and  I  deny  your  God !  " 
cried  the  man,  "  and  I  tell  you  God  is  a  lie  and  a 
fable  and  a  mask.  And  for  the  first  time  in  my 
life  I  do  not  feel  superior  to  God." 

"  What  can  it  all  mean  ?  "  said  Madeleine,  in 
massive  wonder. 

"  Because  I  am  a  fable  also  and  a  mask,"  said 
the  man.  He  had  been  plucking  fiercely  at  his 
black  beard  and  hair  all  the  time;  now  he  sud- 
denly plucked  them  off  and  flung  them  like 
moulted  feathers  in  the  mire.  This  extraordi- 
nary spoliation  left  in  the  sunlight  the  same  face, 
but  a  much  younger  head — a  head  with  close 
chestnut  curls  and  a  short  chestnut  beard. 

"  Now  you  know  the  truth,"  he  answered,  with 


A    SCANDAL    IN    THE   VILLAGE     229 

hard  eyes.  "  I  am  a  cad  who  has  played  a  crooked 
trick  on  a  quiet  village  and  a  decent  woman  for 
a  private  reason  of  his  own.  I  might  have  played 
it  successfully  on  any  other  woman ;  I  have  hit  the 
one  woman  on  whom  it  cannot  be  played.  It's 
just  like  my  damned  luck.  The  plain  truth  is," 
and  here  when  he  came  to  the  plain  truth  he  bog- 
gled and  blundered  as  Evan  had  done  in  telling  it 
to  the  girl  in  the  motor-car. 

"  The  plain  truth  is,"  he  said  at  last,  "  that  I 
am  James  Turnbull  the  atheist.  The  police  are 
after  me ;  not  for  atheism  but  for  being  ready  to 
fight  for  it." 

"  I  saw  something  about  you  in  a  newspaper," 
said  the  girl,  with  a  simplicity  which  even  sur- 
prise could  never  throw  off  its  balance. 

"  Evan  Maclan  said  there  was  a  God,"  went 
on  the  other,  stubbornly,  "  and  I  say  there  isn't. 
And  1  have  come  to  fight  for  the  fact  that  there 
is  no  God;  it  is  for  that  that  I  have  seen  this 
cursed  island  and  your  blessed  face." 

"  You  want  me  really  to  believe,"  said  Made- 
leine, with  parted  lips,  "  that  you  think " 

"  I  want  you  to  hate  me !  "  cried  Turnbull,  irl 
agony.  "  I  want  you  to  be  sick  when  you  think 
of  my  name.    I  am  sure  there  is  no  God." 


230    THE    BALL    AND    THE    CROSS 

"  But  there  is,"  said  Madeline,  quite  quietly, 
and  rather  with  the  air  of  one  telling  children 
about  an  elephant.  "  Why,  I  touched  His  body 
only  this  morning." 

"  You  touched  a  bit  of  bread,"  said  Turnbull, 
biting  his  knuckles.  "  Oh,  I  will  say  anything 
that  can  madden  you !  " 

"  You  think  it  is  only  a  bit  of  bread,"  said  the 
girl,  and  her  lips  tightened  ever  so  little. 

"  I  know  it  is  only  a  bit  of  bread,"  said  Turn- 
bull,  with  violence. 

She  flung  back  her  open  face  and  smiled. 
"  Then  why  did  you  refuse  to  eat  it?  "  she  said. 

James  Turnbull  made  a  little  step  backward, 
and  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  there  seemed  to 
break  out  and  blaze  in  his  head  thoughts  that 
were  not  his  own. 

"  Wh)%  how  silly  of  them,"  cried  out  Made- 
leine, with  quite  a  schoolgirl  gaiety,  "  why,  how 
silly  of  them  to  call  you  a  blasphemer !  Why,  you 
have  wrecked  your  whole  business  because  you 
would  not  commit  blasphemy." 

The  man  stood,  a  somewhat  comic  figure  in  his 
tragic  bewilderment,  with  the  honest  red  head  of 
James  Turnbull  sticking  out  of  the  rich  and  fic- 
titious garments  of  Camille  Bert.     But  the  start- 


A    SCANDAL    IN    THE   VILLAGE     231 

led  pain  of  his  face  was  strong  enough  to  obUt- 
erate  the  oddity. 

"  You  come  down  here,"  continued  the  lady, 
with  that  female  emphasis  which  is  so  pulverising 
in  conversation  and  so  feeble  at  a  public  meeting, 
"  you  and  your  Maclan  come  down  here  and  put 
on  false  beards  or  noses  in  order  to  fight.  You 
pretend  to  be  a  Catholic  commercial  traveller 
from  France.  Poor  Mr.  Maclan  has  to  pretend 
to  be  a  dissolute  nobleman  from  nowhere.  Your 
scheme  succeeds;  you  pick  a  quite  convincing 
quarrel;  you  arrange  a  quite  respectable  duel; 
the  duel  you  have  planned  so  long  will  come  off 
to-morrow  with  absolute  certainty  and  safety. 
And  then  you  throw  off  your  wig  and  throw  up 
your  scheme  and  throw  over  your  colleague,  be- 
cause I  ask  you  to  go  into  a  building  and  eat  a 
bit  of  bread.  And  then  you  dare  to  tell  me  that 
you  are  sure  there  is  nothing  watching  us.  Then 
you  say  you  know  there  is  nothing  on  the  very 
altar  you  run  away  from.    You  know " 

"  I  only  know,"  said  Turnbull,  "  that  I  must 
run  away  from  you.  This  has  got  beyond  any 
talking."  And  he  plunged  along  into  the  village, 
leaving  his  black  wig  and  beard  lying  behind 
him  on  the  road. 


232    THE    BALL   AND    THE    CROSS 

As  the  market-place  opened  before  him  he  saw 
Count  Gregory,  that  distinguished  foreigner, 
standing  and  smoking  in  elegant  meditation  at 
the  corner  of  the  local  cafe.  He  immediately 
made  his  way  rapidly  toward  him,  considering 
that  a  consultation  was  urgent.  But  he  had 
hardly  crossed  half  of  that  stony  quadrangle 
when  a  window  burst  open  above  him  and  a  head 
was  thrust  out,  shouting.  The  man  was  in  his 
woollen  undershirt,  but  TurnbuU  knew  the  ener- 
getic, apoplectic  head  of  the  serjeant  of  police. 
He  pointed  furiously  at  Turnbull  and  shouted 
his  name.  A  policeman  ran  excitedly  from  under 
an  archway  and  tried  to  collar  him.  Two  men 
selling  vegetables  dropped  their  baskets  and 
joined  in  the  chase.  Turnbull  dodged  the  con- 
stable, upset  one  of  the  men  into  his  own  basket, 
and  bounding  toward  the  distinguished  foreign 
Count,  called  to  him  clamorously :  "  Come  on, 
Maclan,  the  hunt  is  up  again." 

The  prompt  reply  of  Count  Gregory  was  to 
pull  off  his  large  yellow  whiskers  and  scatter 
them  on  the  breeze  with  an  air  of  considerable  re- 
lief. Then  he  joined  the  flight  of  Turnbull,  and 
even  as  he  did  so,  with  one  wrench  of  his  power- 
ful hands  rent  and  split  the  strange,  thick  stick 


A    SCANDAL    IN    THE    VILLAGE     233 

that  he  carried.  Inside  it  was  a  naked  old-fash- 
ioned rapier.  The  two  got  a  good  start  up  the 
road  before  the  whole  town  was  awakened  behind 
them ;  and  half  way  up  it  a  similar  transformation 
was  seen  to  take  place  in  Mr.  Turnbull's  singular 
umbrella. 

The  two  had  a  long  race  for  the  harbour ;  but 
the  English  police  were  heavy  and  the  French  in- 
habitants were  indifferent.  In  any  case,  they  got 
used  to  the  notion  of  the  road  being  clear;  and 
just  as  they  had  come  to  the  cliffs  Maclan  banged 
into  another  gentleman  with  unmistakable  sur- 
prise. How  he  knew  he  was  another  gentleman 
merely  by  banging  into  him,  must  remain  a  mys- 
tery. Maclan  was  a  very  poor  and  very  sober 
Scotch  gentleman.  The  ether  was  a  very  drunk 
and  very  wealthy  English  gentleman.  But  there 
was  something  in  the  staggered  and  openly  em- 
barrassed apologies  that  made  them  understand 
each  other  as  readily  and  as  quickly  and  as  much 
as  two  men  talking  French  in  the  middle  of 
China.  The  nearest  expression  of  the  type  is  that 
it  either  hits  or  apologises;  and  in  this  case  both 
apologised. 

"  You  seem  to  be  in  a  hurry,"  said  the  un- 
known Englishman,  falling  back  a  step  or  two  in 


234    THE    BALL    AND    THE    CROSS 

order  to  laugh  with  an  unnatural  heartiness. 
"  What's  it  all  about,  eh?  "  Then  before  Maclan 
could  get  past  his  sprawling  and  staggering  fig- 
ure he  ran  forward  again  and  said  with  a  sort  of 
shouting  and  ear-shattering  whisper :  "  I  say,  my 
name  is  Wilkinson,  You  know — Wilkinson's 
Entire  was  my  grandfather.  Can't  drink  beer 
myself.  Liver."  And  he  shook  his  head  with 
extraordinary  sagacity. 

"  We  really  are  in  a  hurry,  as  you  say,"  said 
Maclan,  summoning  a  sufficiently  pleasant  smile, 
"  so  if  you  will  let  us  pass " 

"  ril  tell  you  what,  you  fellows,"  said  the 
sprawling  gentleman,  confidentially,  while  Evan's 
agonised  ears  heard  behind  him  the  first  paces  of 
the  pursuit,  "  if  you  really  are,  as  you  say,  in  a 
hurry,  I  know  what  it  is  to  be  in  a  hurry — Lord, 
what  a  hurry  I  was  in  when  we  all  came  out  of 
Cartwright's  rooms  —  if  you  really  are  in  a 
hurry — "  and  he  seemed  to  steady  his  voice  into 
a  sort  of  solemnity — "  if  you  are  in  a  hurry, 
there's  nothing  like  a  good  yacht  for  a  man  in  a 
hurry." 

"  No  doubt  you're  right,"  said  Maclan,  and 
dashed  past  him  In  despair.  The  head  of  the 
pursuing  host  was  just  showing  over  the  top  of 


A    SCANDAL    IN    THE    VILLAGE     235 

the  hill  behind  him.  Turnbull  had  already  ducked 
under  the  intoxicated  gentleman's  elbow  and  fled 
far  in  front. 

"  No,  but  look  here,"  said  Mr.  Wilkinson,  en- 
thusiastically running  after  Maclan  and  catching 
him  by  the  sleeve  of  his  coat.  "If  you  want  to 
hurry  you  should  take  a  yacht,  and  if — "  he  said, 
with  a  burst  of  rationality,  like  one  leaping  to  a 
further  point  in  logic — "  if  you  want  a  yacht — 
you  can  have  mine." 

Evan  pulled  up  abruptly  and  looked  back  at 
him.  "  We  are  really  in  the  devil  of  a  hurry,"  he 
said,  "  and  if  you  really  have  a  yacht,  the  truth  is 
that  we  would  give  our  ears  for  it." 

"  You'll  find  it  in  harbour,"  said  Wilkinson, 
struggling  with  his  speech.  "  Left  side  of  har- 
bour— called  Gibson  Girl — can't  think  why, 
old  fellow,  I  never  lent  it  you  before." 

With  these  words  the  benevolent  Mr.  Wilkin- 
son fell  flat  on  his  face  in  the  road,  but  continued 
to  laugh  softly,  and  turned  toward  his  flying  com- 
panion a  face  of  peculiar  peace  and  benignity. 
Evan's  mind  went  through  a  crisis  of  instanta- 
neous casuistry,  in  which  it  may  be  that  he  de- 
cided wrongly;  but  about  how  he  decided  his 
biographer  can  profess  no  doubt.     Two  minutes 


236    THE   BALL   AND    THE    CROSS 

afterward  he  had  overtaken  Turnbull  and  told  the 
tale ;  ten  minutes  afterward  he  and  Turnbull  had 
somehow  tumbled  into  the  yacht  called  the  Gib- 
son Girl  and  had  somehow  pushed  off  from  the 
Isle  of  St.  Loup, 


CHAPTER    XII 

THE  DESERT   ISLAND 

Those  who  happen  to  hold  the  view  (and  Mr. 
Evan  Maclan,  now  aUve  and  comfortable,  is 
among  the  number)  that  something  supernatural, 
some  eccentric  kindness  from  god  or  fairy  had 
guided  our  adventurers  through  all  their  absurd 
perils,  might  have  found  his  strongest  argument 
perhaps  in  their  management  or  mismanagement 
of  Mr.  Wilkinson's  yacht.  Neither  of  them  had 
the  smallest  qualification  for  managing  such  a 
vessel ;  but  Maclan  had  a  practical  knowledge  of 
the  sea  in  much  smaller  and  quite  different  boats, 
while  TurnbuU  had  an  abstract  knowledge  of  sci- 
ence and  some  of  its  applications  to  navigation, 
which  was  worse.  The  presence  of  the  god  or 
fairy  can  only  be  deduced  from  the  fact  that  they 
never  definitely  ran  into  anything,  either  a  boat,  a 
rock,  a  quicksand,  or  a  man-of-war.  Apart  from 
this  negative  description,  their  voyage  would  be 
difficult  to  describe.  It  took  at  least  a  fortnight, 
237 


238    THE    BALL    AND    THE    CROSS 

and  Maclan,  who  was  certainly  the  shrewder  sail- 
or of  the  two,  realised  that  they  were  sailing  west 
into  the  Atlantic  and  were  probably  by  this  time 
past  the  Scilly  Isles.  How  much  farther  they 
stood  out  into  the  western  sea  it  was  impossible  to 
conjecture.  But  they  felt  certain,  at  least,  that 
they  were  far  enough  into  that  awful  gulf  between 
us  and  America  to  make  it  unlikely  that  they 
would  soon  see  land  again.  It  was  therefore 
with  legitimate  excitement  that  one  rainy  morn- 
ing after  daybreak  they  saw  the  distinct  shape  of 
a  solitary  island  standing  up  against  that  encir- 
cling strip  of  silver  which  ran  round  the  skyline 
and  separated  the  gray  and  green  of  the  billows 
from  the  gray  and  mauve  of  the  morning  clouds. 

"  What  can  it  be  ?  "  cried  Maclan,  in  a  dry- 
throated  excitement.  "  I  didn't  know  there  were 
any  Atlantic  islands  so  far  beyond  the  Scillies — 
Good  Lord,  it  can't  be  Madeira,  yet?  " 

"  I  thought  you  were  fond  of  legends  and  lies 
and  fables,"  said  Turnbull,  grimly.  "  Perhaps 
it's  Atlantis." 

"  Of  course,  it  might  be,"  answered  the  other, 
quite  innocently  and  gravely ;  "  but  I  never 
thought  the  story  about  Atlantis  was  very  sol- 
idly established." 


THE    DESERT    ISLAND  239 

"  Whatever  it  is,  we  are  running  on  to  it,"  said 
Turnbull,  equably,  "  and  we  shall  be  shipwrecked 
twice,  at  any  rate." 

The  naked  looking  nose  of  land  projecting 
from  the  unknown  island  was,  indeed,  growing 
larger  and  larger,  like  the  trunk  of  some  terrible 
and  advancing  elephant.  There  seemed  to  be 
nothing  in  particular,  at  least  on  this  side  of  the 
island,  except  shoals  of  shell-fish  lying  so  thick 
as  almost  to  make  it  look  like  one  of  those  toy 
grottos  that  the  children  make.  In  one  place, 
however,  the  coast  offered  a  soft,  smooth  bay  of 
sand,  and  even  the  rudimentary  ingenuity  6f 
the  two  amateur  mariners  managed  to  run  up  the 
little  ship  with  her  prow  well  on  shore  and  her 
bowsprit  pointing  upward,  as  in  a  sort  of  idiotic 
triumph. 

They  tumbled  on  shore  and  began  to  unload 
the  vessel,  setting  the  stores  out  in  rows  upon 
the  sand  with  something  of  the  solemnity  of  boys 
playing  at  pirates.  There  were  Mr.  Wilkinson's 
cigar-boxes  and  Mr.  Wilkinson's  dozen  of  cham- 
pagne and  Mr.  Wilkinson's  tinned  salmon  and 
Mr.  Wilkinson's  tinned  tongue  and  Mr.  Wilkin- 
son's tinned  sardines,  and  every  sort  of  preserved 
thing  that  could  be  seen  at  the  Army  and  Navy 


240    THE   BALL   AND    THE    CROSS 

stores.  Then  Maclan  stopped  with  a  jar  of 
pickles  in  his  hand  and  said  abruptly : 

"  I  don't  know  why  we're  doing  all  this ;  I  sup- 
pose we  ought  really  to  fall  to  and  get  it  over." 

Then  he  added  more  thoughtfully :  "  Of  course 
this  island  seems  rather  bare  and  the  sur- 
vivor  " 

"  The  question  is,"  said  Turnbull,  with  cheer- 
ful speculation,  "  whether  the  survivor  will  be  in 
a  proper  frame  of  mind  for  potted  prawns." 

Maclan  looked  down  at  the  rows  of  tins  and 
bottles,  and  the  cloud  of  doubt  still  lowered  upon 
his  face. 

*'  You  will  permit  me  two  liberties,  my  dear 
sir,"  said  Turnbull  at  last :  "  The  first  is  to  break 
open  this  box  and  light  one  of  Mr.  Wilkinson's 
excellent  cigars,  which  will,  I  am  sure,  assist  my 
meditations;  the  second  is  to  offer  a  penny  for 
your  thoughts;  or  rather  to  convulse  the  already 
complex  finances  of  this  island  by  betting  a  penny 
that  I  know  them." 

"What  on  earth  are  you  talking  about?" 
asked  Maclan,  listlessly,  in  the  manner  of  an  in- 
attentive child. 

"  I  know  what  you  are  really  thinking,  Mac- 
lan,"  repeated   Turnbull,   laughing.     "  I   know 


THE   DESERT    ISLAND  241 

what  I  am  thinking,  anyhow.  And  I  rather  fancy 
it's  the  same." 

"  What  are  you  thinking  ?  "  asked  Evan. 

"  I  am  thinking  and  you  are  thinking,"  said 
Turnbull,  "  that  it  is  damned  silly  to  waste  all 
that  champagne." 

Something  like  the  spectre  of  a  smile  appeared 
on  the  unsmiling  visage  of  the  Gael ;  and  he  made 
at  least  no  movement  of  dissent. 

"  We  could  drink  all  the  wine  and  smoke  all 
the  cigars  easily  in  a  week,"  said  Turnbull ;  "  and 
that  would  be  to  die  feasting  like  heroes." 

"  Yes,  and  there  is  something  else,"  said  Mac- 
Ian,  with  slight  hesitation.  "  You  see,  we  are  on 
an  almost  unknown  rock,  lost  in  the  Atlantic. 
The  police  will  never  catch  us;  but  then  neither 
may  the  public  ever  hear  of  us ;  and  that  was  one 
of  the  things  we  wanted."  Then,  after  a  pause, 
he  said,  drawing  in  the  sand  with  his  sword- 
point:  "  She  may  never  hear  of  it  at  all." 

"  Well  ? "  inquired  the  other,  puffing  at  his 
cigar. 

"  Well,"  said  Maclan,  "  we  might  occupy  a 
day  or  two  in  drawing  up  a  thorough  and  com- 
plete statement  of  what  we  did  and  why  we  did 
it,  and  all  about  both  our  points  of  view.    Then 


242     THE    BALL   AND    THE    CROSS 

we  could  leave  one  copy  on  the  island  whatever 
happens  to  us  and  put  another  in  an  empty  bottle 
and  send  it  out  to  sea,  as  they  do  in  the  books." 

"  A  good  idea,"  said  Turnbull,  "  and  now  let 
us  finish  unpacking"." 

As  Maclan,  a  tall,  almost  ghostly  figure,  paced 
along  the  edge  of  sand  that  ran  round  the  islet, 
the  purple  but  cloudy  poetry  which  was  his  native 
element  was  piled  up  at  its  thickest  upon  his  soul. 
The  unique  island  and  the  endless  sea  emphasised 
the  thing  solely  as  an  epic.  There  were  no  ladies 
or  policemen  here  to  give  him  a  hint  either  of  its 
farce  or  its  tragedy. 

"Perhaps  when  the  morning  stars  were  made," 
he  said  to  himself,  "  God  built  this  island  up  from 
the  bottom  of  the  world  to  be  a  tower  and  a  the- 
atre for  the  fight  between  yea  and  nay." 

Then  he  wandered  up  to  the  highest  level  of 
the  rock,  where  there  was  a  roof  or  plateau  of 
level  stone.  Half  an  hour  afterward,  Turnbull 
found  him  clearing  away  the  loose  sand  from  this 
table-land  and  making  it  smooth  and  even. 

"  We  will  fight  up  here,  Turnbull,"  said  Mac- 
Ian,  "  when  the  time  comes.  And  till  the  time 
comes  this  place  shall  be  sacred." 

"  I  thought  of  having  lunch  up   here,"   said 


THE    DESERT    ISLAND  243 

Turnbull,  who  had  a  bottle  of  champagne  in  his 
hand. 

"  No,  no — not  up  here,"  said  Maclan,  and 
came  down  from  the  height  quite  hastily.  Before 
he  descended,  however,  he  fixed  the  two  swords 
upright,  one  at  each  end  of  the  platform,  as  if 
they  were  human  sentinels  to  guard  it  under  the 
stars. 

Then  they  came  down  and  lunched  plentifully 
in  a  nest  of  loose  rocks.  In  the  same  place  that 
night  they  supped  more  plentifully  still.  The 
smoke  of  Mr.  Wilkinson's  cigars  went  up  cease- 
less and  strong  smelling,  like  a  pagan  sacrifice; 
the  golden  glories  of  Mr.  Wilkinson's  champagne 
rose  to  their  heads  and  poured  out  of  them  in  fan- 
cies and  philosophies.  And  occasionally  they 
would  look  up  at  the  starlight  and  the  rock  and 
see  the  space  guarded  by  the  two  cross-hilted 
swords,  which  looked  like  two  black  crosses  at 
either  end  of  a  grave. 

In  this  primitive  and  Homeric  truce  the  week 
passed  by;  it  consisted  almost  entirely  of  eating, 
drinking,  smoking,  talking,  and  occasionally 
singing.  They  wrote  their  records  and  cast  loose 
their  bottle.  They  never  ascended  to  the  ominous 
plateau ;  they  had  never  stood  there  save  for  that 


244    THE    BALL   AND    THE    CROSS 

single  embarrassed  minute  when  they  had  had 
no  time  to  take  stock  of  the  seascape  or  the  shape 
of  the  land.  They  did  not  even  explore  the  isl- 
and ;  for  Maclan  was  partly  concerned  in  prayer 
and  Turnbull  entirely  concerned  with  tobacco ;  and 
both  these  forms  of  inspiration  can  be  enjoyed 
by  the  secluded  and  even  the  sedentary.  It  was 
on  a  golden  afternoon,  the  sun  sinking  over  the 
sea,  rayed  like  the  very  head  of  Apollo,  when 
Turnbull  tossed  off  the  last  half  pint  from  the 
emptied  Wilkinsonian  bottle,  hurled  the  bottle 
into  the  sea  with  objectless  energy,  and  went  up 
to  where  his  sword  stood  waiting  for  him  on  the 
hill.  Maclan  was  already  standing  heavily  by  his 
with  bent  head  and  eyes  reading  the  ground.  He 
had  not  even  troubled  to  throw  a  glance  round 
the  island  or  the  horizon.  But  Turnbull  being  of 
a  more  active  and  birdlike  type  of  mind  did  throw 
a  glance  round  the  scene.  The  consequence  of 
which  was  that  he  nearly  fell  off  the  rock. 

On  three  sides  of  this  shelly  and  sandy  islet  the 
sea  stretched  blue  and  infinite  without  a  speck  of 
land  or  sail;  the  same  as  Turnbull  had  first  seen 
it,  except  that  the  tide  being  out  it  showed  a  few 
yards  more  of  slanting  sand  under  the  roots  of 
the  rocks.    But  on  the  fourth  side  the  island  ex- 


THE   DESERT    ISLAND  245 

hibited  a  more  extraordinary  feature.  In  fact,  it 
exhibited  the  extraordinary  feature  of  not  being 
an  island  at  all.  A  long,  curving  neck  of  sand, 
as  smooth  and  wet  as  the  neck  of  the  sea-serpent, 
ran  out  into  the  sea  and  joined  their  rock  to  a  line 
of  low,  billowing  and  glistening  sand-hills,  which 
the  sinking  sea  had  just  bared  to  the  sun. 
Whether  they  were  firm  sand  or  quicksand  it  was 
difficult  to  guess ;  but  there  was  at  least  no  doubt 
that  they  lay  on  the  edge  of  some  larger  land ;  for 
colourless  hills  appeared  faintly  behind  them  and 
no  sea  could  be  seen  beyond. 

"  Sakes  alive !  "  cried  Turnbull,  with  rolling 
eyes ;  "  this  ain't  an  island  in  the  Atlantic.  We've 
butted  the  bally  continent  of  America." 

Maclan  turned  his  head,  and  his  face,  already 
pale,  grew  a  shade  paler.  He  was  by  this  time 
walking  in  a  world  of  omens  and  hieroglyphics, 
and  he  could  not  read  anything  but  what  was 
baffling  or  menacing  in  this  brown  gigantic  arm 
of  the  earth  stretched  out  into  the  sea  to  seize 
him. 

"  Maclan,"  said  Turnbull,  in  his  temperate 
way,  "  whatever  our  eternal  interrupted  tete-a- 
tetes  have  taught  us  or  not  taught  us,  at  least  we 
need  not  fear  the  charge  of  fear.    If  it  is  essential 


246    THE    BALL   AND    THE    CROSS 

to  your  emotions,  I  will  cheerfully  finish  the  fight 
here  and  now ;  but  I  must  confess  that  if  you  kill 
me  here  I  shall  die  with  my  curiosity  highly  ex- 
cited and  unsatisfied  upon  a  minor  point  of 
geography." 

"  I  do  not  want  to  stop  now,"  said  the  other,  in 
his  elephantine  simplicity,  "  but  we  must  stop  for 
a  moment,  because  it  is  a  sign — perhaps  it  is  a 
miracle.  We  must  see  what  is  at  the  end  of  the 
road  of  sand ;  it  may  be  a  bridge  built  across  the 
gulf  by  God." 

"  So  long  as  you  gratify  my  query,"  said 
Turnbull,  laughing  and  letting  back  his  blade  into 
the  sheath,  "  I  do  not  care  for  what  reason  you 
choose  to  stop. 

They  clambered  down  the  rocky  peninsula  and 
trudged  along  the  sandy  isthmus  with  the  plod- 
ding resolution  of  men  who  seemed  almost  to 
have  made  up  their  minds  to  be  wanderers  on  the 
face  of  the  earth.  Despite  Turnbull's  air  of  scien- 
tific eagerness,  he  was  really  the  less  impatient  of 
the  two;  and  the  Highlander  went  on  well  ahead 
of  him  with  passionate  strides.  By  the  time  they 
had  walked  for  about  half  an  hour  in  the  ups  and 
downs  of  those  dreary  sands,  the  distance  be- 
tween the  two  had  lengthened  and  Maclan  was 


THE    DESERT    ISLAND  247 

only  a  tall  figure  silhouetted  for  an  instant  upon 
the  crest  of  some  sand  dune  and  then  disappear- 
ing behind  it.  This  rather  increased  the  Robin- 
son Crusoe  feeling  in  Mr.  Turnbull,  and  he 
looked  about  almost  disconsolately  for  some  sign 
of  life.  What  sort  of  life  he  expected  it  to  be  if 
it  appeared,  he  did  not  very  clearly  know.  He 
has  since  confessed  that  he  thinks  that  in  his  sub- 
consciousness he  expected  an  alligator. 

The  first  sign  of  life  that  he  did  see,  however, 
was  something  more  extraordinary  than  the  lar- 
gest alligator.  It  was  nothing  less  than  the  noto- 
rious Mr.  Evan  Maclan  coming  bounding  back 
across  the  sand  heaps  breathless,  without  his  cap 
and  keeping  the  sword  in  his  hand  only  by  a  habit 
now  quite  hardened. 

"  Take  care,  Turnbull,"  he  cried  out  from  a 
good  distance  as  he  ran,  "  I've  seen  a  native." 

"A  native?"  repeated  his  companion,  whose 
scenery  had  of  late  been  chiefly  of  shell-fish, 
"  what  the  deuce!     Do  you  mean  an  oyster?  " 

"  No,"  said  Maclan,  stopping  and  breathing 
hard,  "  I  mean  a  savage.    A  black  man." 

"Why,  where  did  you  see  him?"  asked  the 
staring  editor. 

"  Over  there — behind  that  hill,"  said  the  gasp- 


248    THE    BALL    AND    THE    CROSS 

ing  Maclan.  "  He  put  up  his  black  head  and 
grinned  at  me." 

Turnbull  thrust  his  hands  through  his  red  hair 
hke  one  who  gives  up  the  world  as  a  bad  riddle. 
"  Lord  love  a  duck,"  said  he,  "  can  it  be  Ja- 
maica? " 

Then  glancing  at  his  companion  with  a  small 
frown,  as  of  one  slightly  suspicious,  he  said :  "  I 
say,  don't  think  me  rude — but  you're  a  visionary 
kind  of  fellow — and  then  we  drank  a  great  deal. 
Do  you  mind  waiting  here  while  I  go  and  see  for 
myself?" 

"  Shout  if  you  get  into  trouble,"  said  the 
Celt,  with  composure ;  "  you  will  find  it  is  as  I 
say." 

Turnbull  ran  off  ahead  with  a  rapidity  now  far 
greater  than  his  rival's,  and  soon  vanished  over 
the  disputed  sand-hill.  Then  five  minutes  passed, 
and  then  seven  minutes;  and  Maclan  bit  his  lip 
and  swung  his  sword,  and  the  other  did  not  reap- 
pear. Finally,  with  a  Gaelic  oath,  Evan  started 
forward  to  the  rescue,  and  almost  at  the  same  mo- 
ment the  small  figure  of  the  missing  man  ap- 
peared on  the  ridge  against  the  sky. 

Even  at  that  distance,  however,  there  was 
something  odd  about  his  attitude;  so  odd  that 


THE    DESERT    ISLAND  249 

Maclan  continued  to  make  his  way  in  that  direc- 
tion. It  looked  as  if  he  were  wounded ;  or,  still 
more,  as  if  he  were  ill.  He  wavered  as  he  came 
down  the  slope  and  seemed  flinging  himself  into 
peculiar  postures.  But  it  was  only  when  he  came 
within  three  feet  of  Maclan's  face,  that  that  ob- 
server of  mankind  fully  realised  that  Mr.  James 
Turnbull  was  roaring  with  laughter. 

"  You  are  quite  right,"  sobbed  that  wholly  de- 
moralised journalist.  "  He's  black,  oh,  there's  no 
doubt  the  black's  all  right — as  far  as  it  goes." 
And  he  went  ofif  again  into  convulsions  of  his 
humourous  ailment. 

"  What  ever  is  the  matter  with  you  ?  "  asked 
Maclan,  with  stern  impatience.  "  Did  you  see 
the  nigger " 

"  I  saw  the  nigger,"  gasped  Turnbull.  "  I  saw 
the  splendid  barbarian  Chief.  I  saw  the  Emperor 
of  Ethiopia — oh,  I  saw  him  all  right.  The  nig- 
ger's hands  and  face  are  a  lovely  colour — and 
the  nigger — "    And  he  was  overtaken  once  more. 

"  Well,  well,  well,"  said  Evan,  stamping  each 
monosyllable  on  the  sand,  "  what  about  the 
nigger?" 

"  Well,  the  truth  is,"  said  Turnbull,  suddenly 
and  startlingly,  becoming  quite  grave  and  precise, 


250    THE    BALL    AND    THE    CROSS 

"  the  truth  is,  the  nigger  is  a  Margate  nigger, 
and  we  are  now  on  the  edge  of  the  Isle  of  Thanet, 
a  few  miles  from  Margate." 

Then  he  had  a  momentary  return  of  his  hyste- 
ria and  said :  "  I  say,  old  boy,  I  should  like  to  see 
a  chart  of  our  fortnight's  cruise  in  Wilkinson's 
yacht." 

Maclan  had  no  smile  in  answer,  but  his  eager 
lips  opened  as  if  parched  for  the  truth.  "  You 
mean  to  say,"  he  began 

"  Yes,  I  mean  to  say,"  said  Turnbull,  "  and  I 
mean  to  say  something  funnier  still.  I  have 
learnt  everything  I  wanted  to  know  from  the 
partially  black  musician  over  there,  who  has  taken 
a  run  in  his  war-paint  to  meet  a  friend  in  a  quiet 
pub.  along  the  coast — the  noble  savage  has  told 
me  all  about  it.  The  bottle  containing  our  dec- 
larations, doctrines,  and  dying  sentiments  was 
washed  up  on  Margate  beach  yesterday  in  the 
presence  of  one  alderman,  two  bathing-machine 
men,  three  policemen,  seven  doctors,  and  a  hun- 
dred and  thirteen  London  clerks  on  a  holiday,  to 
all  of  whom,  whether  directly  or  indirectly,  our 
composition  gave  enormous  literary  pleasure. 
Buck  up,  old  man,  this  story  of  ours  is  a  switch- 
back.    I  have  begun  to  understand  the  pulse  and 


THE    DESERT    ISLAND  251 

the  time  of  it;  now  we  are  up  in  a  cathedral  and 
then  we  are  down  in  a  theatre,  where  they  only 
play  farces.  Come,  I  am  quite  reconciled — let 
us  enjoy  the  farce." 

But  Maclan  said  nothing,  and  an  instant  after- 
ward Turnbull  himself  called  out  in  an  entirely 
changed  voice :  "  Oh,  this  is  damnable !  This  is 
not  to  be  borne !  " 

Maclan  followed  his  eye  along  the  sand-hills. 
He  saw  what  looked  like  the  momentary  and  wav- 
ing figure  of  the  nigger  minstrel,  and  then  he  saw 
a  heavy  running  policeman  take  the  turn  of  the 
sand-hill  with  the  smooth  solemnity  of  a  railway 
train. 


CHAPTER    XIII 


THE   GARDEN    OF   PEACE 


Up  to  this  instant  Evan  Maclan  had  really  un- 
derstood nothing;  but  when  he  saw  the  police- 
man he  saw  everything.  He  saw  his  enemies,  all 
the  powers  and  princes  of  the  earth.  He  was 
suddenly  altered  from  a  staring  statue  to  a  leap- 
ing man  of  the  mountains. 

"  We  must  break  away  from  him  here,"  he 
cried,  briefly,  and  went  like  a  whirlwind  over  the 
sand  ridge  in  a  straight  line  and  at  a  particular 
angle.  When  the  policeman  had  finished  his  ad- 
mirable railway  curve,  he  found  a  wall  of  failing 
sand  between  him  and  the  pursued.  By  the  time 
he  had  scaled  it  thrice,  slid  down  twice,  and 
crested  it  in  the  third  effort,  the  two  flying  figures 
were  far  in  front.  They  found  the  sand  harder 
farther  on ;  it  began  to  be  crusted  with  scraps  of 
turf  and  in  a  few  moments  they  were  flying 
easily  over  an  open  common  of  rank  sea-grass. 
They  had  no  easy  business,  however ;  for  the  bot- 
352 


THE    GARDEN    OF    PEACE        253 

tie  which  they  had  so  innocently  sent  into  the 
chief  gate  of  Thanet  had  called  to  life  the  police 
of  half  a  county  on  their  trail.  From  every  side 
across  the  gray-green  common  figures  could  be 
seen  running  and  closing  in;  and  it  was  only 
when  Maclan  with  his  big  body  broke  down  the 
tangled  barrier  of  a  little  wood,  as  men  break 
down  a  door  with  the  shoulder ;  it  was  only  when 
they  vanished  crashing  into  the  under  world  of 
the  black  wood,  that  their  hunters  were  even  in- 
stantaneously thrown  off  the  scent. 

At  the  risk  of  struggling  a  little  longer  like 
flies  in  that  black  web  of  twigs  and  trunks,  Evan 
(who  had  an  instinct  of  the  hunter  or  the 
hunted)  took  an  incalculable  course  through  the 
forest,  which  let  them  out  at  last  by  a  forest  open- 
ing— quite  forgotten  by  the  leaders  of  the  chase. 
They  ran  a  mile  or  two  farther  along  the  edge  of 
the  wood  until  they  reached  another  and  some- 
what similar  opening.  Then  Maclan  stood  ut- 
terly still  and  listened,  as  animals  listen,  for  every 
sound  in  the  universe.  Then  he  siaid :  "  We  are 
quit  of  them."  And  Turnbull  said :  "  Where 
shall  we  go  now  ?  " 

Maclan  looked  at  the  silver  sunset  that  was 
closing  in,  barred  by  plumy  lines  of  purple  cloud ; 


254    THE    BALL   AND    THE    CROSS 

he  looked  at  the  high  tree-tops  that  caught  the 
last  light  and  at  the  birds  going  heavily  home- 
ward, just  as  if  all  these  things  were  bits  of  writ- 
ten advice  that  he  could  read. 

Then  he  said :  "  The  best  place  we  can  go  to 
is  to  bed.  If  we  can  get  some  sleep  in  this  wood, 
now  every  one  has  cleared  out  of  it,  it  will  be 
worth  a  handicap  of  two  hundred  yards  to- 
morrow." 

Turnbull,  who  was  exceptionally  lively  and 
laughing  in  his  demeanour,  kicked  his  legs  about 
like  a  schoolboy  and  said  he  did  not  want  to  go 
to  sleep.  He  walked  incessantly  and  talked  very 
brilliantly.  And  when  at  last  he  lay  down  on  the 
hard  earth,  sleep  struck  him  senseless  like  a 
hammer. 

Indeed,  he  needed  the  strongest  sleep  he  could 
get;  for  the  earth  was  still  full  of  darkness  and 
a  kind  of  morning  fog  when  his  fellow-fugitive 
shook  him  awake. 

"  No  more  sleep,  I'm  afraid,"  said  Evan, 
in  a  heavy,  almost  submissive,  voice  of  apol- 
ogy. "  They've  gone  on  past  us  right  enough 
for  a  good  thirty  miles;  but  now  they've 
found  out  their  mistake,  and  they're  coming 
back." 


THE    GARDEN    OF    PEACE         255 

"  Are  you  sure?  "  said  Turnbull,  sitting  up  and 
rubbing  his  red  eyebrows  with  his  hand. 

The  next  moment,  however,  he  had  jumped  up 
ahve  and  leaping  Hke  a  man  struck  with  a  shock 
of  cold  water,  and  he  was  plunging  after  Maclan 
along  the  woodland  path.  The  shape  of  their  old 
friend  the  constable  had  appeared  against  the 
pearl  and  pink  of  the  sunrise.  Somehow,  it  al- 
ways looked  a  very  funny  shape  when  seen 
against  the  sunrise. 

A  wash  of  weary  daylight  was  breaking  over 
the  country  side,  and  the  fields  and  roads  were 
full  of  white  mist — the  kind  of  white  mist  that 
clings  in  corners  like  cotton  wool.  The  empty 
road,  along  which  the  chase  had  taken  its  turn, 
was  overshadowed  on  one  side  by  a  very  high 
discoloured  wall,  stained,  and  streaked  green,  as 
with  seaweed  —  evidently  the  high-shouldered 
sentinel  of  some  great  gentleman's  estate.  A 
yard  or  two  from  the  wall  ran  parallel  to  it  a 
linked  and  tangled  line  of  lime-trees,  forming  a 
kind  of  cloister  along  the  side  of  the  road.  It  was 
under  this  branching  colonnade  that  the  two  fugi- 
tives fled,  almost  concealed  from  their  pursuers 
by  the  twilight,  the  mist  and  the  leaping  zoetrope 


256    THE    BALL   AND    THE    CROSS 

of  shadows.  Their  feet,  though  beating  the 
ground  furiously,  made  but  a  faint  noise;  for 
they  had  kicked  away  their  boots  in  the  wood; 
their  long,  antiquated  weapons  made  no  jingle 
or  clatter,  for  they  had  strapped  them  across 
their  backs  like  guitars.  They  had  all  the  ad- 
vantages that  invisibility  and  silence  can  add  to 
speed. 

A  hundred  and  fifty  yards  behind  them  down 
the  centre  of  the  empty  road  the  first  of  their 
pursuers  came  pounding  and  panting — a  fat  but 
powerful  policeman  who  had  distanced  all  the 
rest.  He  came  on  at  a  splendid  pace  for  so  portly 
a  figure;  but,  like  all  heavy  bodies  in  motion,  he 
gave  the  impression  that  it  would  be  easier  for 
him  to  increase  his  pace  than  to  slacken  it  sud- 
denly. Nothing  short  of  a  brick  wall  could  have 
abruptly  brought  him  up.  Turnbull  turned  his 
head  slightly  and  found  breath  to  say  something 
to  Maclan.    Maclan  nodded. 

Pursuer  and  pursued  were  fixed  in  their  dis- 
tance as  they  fled,  for  some  quarter  of  a  mile, 
when  they  came  to  a  place  where  two  or  three  of 
the  trees  grew  twistedly  together,  making  a 
special  obscurity.  Past  this  place  the  pursuing 
policeman  went  thundering  without  thought  or 


THE   GARDEN    OF    PEACE        257 

hesitation.  But  he  was  pursuing  his  shadow  or 
the  wind;  for  TurnbuU  had  put  one  foot  in  a 
crack  of  the  tree  and  gone  up  it  as  quickly  and 
softly  as  a  cat.  Somewhat  more  laboriously  but 
in  equal  silence  the  long  legs  of  the  Highlander 
had  followed ;  and  crouching  in  crucial  silence  in 
the  cloud  of  leaves,  they  saw  the  whole  posse  of 
their  pursuers  go  by  and  die  into  the  dust  and 
mists  of  the  distance. 

The  white  vapour  lay,  as  it  often  does,  in  lean 
and  palpable  layers ;  and  even  the  head  of  the  tree 
was  above  it  in  the  half  daylight,  like  a  green  ship 
swinging  on  a  sea  of  foam.  But  higher  yet  be- 
hind them,  and  readier  to  catch  the  first  coming 
of  the  sun,  ran  the  rampart  of  the  top  of  the  wall, 
which  in  their  excitement  of  escape  looked  at 
once  indispensable  and  unattainable,  like  the  wall 
of  heaven.  Here,  however,  it  was  Maclan's 
turn  to  have  the  advantage;  for,  though  less 
light-limbed  and  feline,  he  was  longer  and 
stronger  in  the  arms.  In  two  seconds  he  had 
tugged  up  his  chin  over  the  wall  like  a  horizontal 
bar ;  the  next  he  sat  astride  of  it,  like  a  horse  of 
stone.  With  his  assistance  Turnbull  vaulted  to  the 
same  perch,  and  the  two  began  cautiously  to  shift 
along  the  wall  in  the  direction  by  which  they  had 


258    THE    BALL    AND    THE    CROSS 

come,  doubling  on  their  tracks  to  throw  off  the 
last  pursuit.  Maclan  could  not  rid  himself  of  the 
fancy  of  bestriding  a  steed ;  the  long,  gray  coping 
of  the  wall  shot  out  in  front  of  him,  like  the  long, 
gray  neck  of  some  nightmare  Rosinante.  He 
had  the  quaint  thought  that  he  and  Turnbull  were 
the  two  knights  on  one  steed  on  the  old  shield  of 
the  Templars. 

The  nightmare  of  the  stone  horse  was  in- 
creased by  the  white  fog,  which  seemed  thicker 
inside  the  wall  than  outside.  They  could  make 
nothing  of  the  enclosure  upon  which  they  were 
partial  trespassers,  except  that  the  green  and 
crooked  branches  of  a  big  apple-tree  came  crawl- 
ing at  them  out  of  the  mist,  like  the  tentacles  of 
some  green  cuttlefish.  Anything  would  serve, 
however,  that  was  likely  to  confuse  their  trail,  so 
they  both  decided  without  need  of  words  to  use 
this  tree  also  as  a  ladder — a  ladder  of  descent. 
When  they  dropped  from  the  lowest  branch  to 
the  ground  their  stockinged  feet  felt  hard  gravel 
beneath  them. 

They  had  alighted  in  the  middle  of  a  very 
broad  garden-path,  and  the  clearing  mist  per- 
mitted them  to  see  the  edge  of  a  well-clipped 
lawn.     Though  the  white  vapour  was  still  a  veil, 


THE    GARDEN    OF    PEACE        259 

it  was  like  the  gauzy  veil  of  a  transformation 
scene  in  a  pantomime ;  for  through  it  there  glowed 
shapeless  masses  of  colour,  masses  which  might 
be  clouds  of  sunrise  or  mosaics  of  gold  and 
crimson,  or  ladies  robed  in  ruby  and  emerald 
draperies.  As  it  thinned  yet  further  they  saw 
that  it  was  only  flowers;  but  flowers  in  such  in- 
solent mass  and  magnificence  as  can  seldom  be 
seen  out  of  the  tropics.  Purple  and  crimson  rho- 
dodendrons rose  arrogantly,  like  rampant  heraldic 
animals  against  their  burning  background  of 
laburnum  gold.  The  roses  were  red  hot;  the 
clematis  was,  so  to  speak,  blue  hot.  And  yet  the 
mere  whiteness  of  the  syringa  seemed  the  most 
violent  colour  of  all.  As  the  golden  sunlight 
gradually  conquered  the  mists,  it  had  really  some- 
thing of  the  sensational  sweetness  of  the  slow 
opening  of  the  gates  of  Eden,  Maclan,  whose 
mind  was  always  haunted  with  such  seraphic  or 
titanic  parallels,  made  some  such  remark  to  his 
companion.  But  Turnbull  only  cursed  and  said 
that  it  was  the  back  garden  of  some  damnable 
rich  man. 

When  the  last  haze  had  faded  from  the  ordered 
paths,  the  open  lawns,  and  the  flaming  flower- 
beds, the  two  realised,  not  without  an  abrupt  re- 


a6o    THE    BALL   AND    THE    CROSS 

examination  of  their  position,  that  they  were  not 
alone  in  the  garden. 

Down  the  centre  of  the  central  garden-path, 
preceded  by  a  blue  cloud  from  a  cigarette,  was 
walking  a  gentleman  who  evidently  understood 
all  the  relish  of  a  garden  in  the  very  early  morn- 
ing. He  was  a  slim  yet  satisfied  figure,  clad  in 
a  suit  of  pale-gray  tweed,  so  subdued  that  the 
pattern  was  imperceptible — a  costume  that  was 
casual  but  not  by  any  means  careless.  His  face, 
which  was  reflective  and  somewhat  overrefined, 
was  the  face  of  a  quite  elderly  man,  though  his 
stringy  hair  and  moustache  were  still  quite  yel- 
low. A  double  eyeglass,  with  a  broad,  black  rib- 
bon, drooped  from  his  aquiline  nose,  and  he 
smiled,  as  he  communed  with  himself,  with  a  self- 
content  which  was  rare  and  almost  irritating. 
The  straw  panama  on  his  head  was  many  shades 
shabbier  than  his  clothes,  as  if  he  had  caught  it 
up  by  accident. 

It  needed  the  full  shock  of  the  huge  shadow  of 
Maclan,  falling  across  his  sunlit  path,  to  rouse 
him  from  his  smiling  reverie.  When  this  had 
fallen  on  him  he  lifted  his  head  a  little  and 
blinked  at  the  intruders  with  short-sighted  be- 
nevolence, but  with  far  less  surprise  than  might 


THE    GARDEN    OF    PEACE        261 

have  been  expected.  He  was  a  gentleman;  that 
is,  he  had  social  presence  of  mind,  whether  for 
kindness  or  for  insolence, 

"Can  I  do  anything  for  you?"  he  said,  at 
last. 

Maclan  bowed.  "  You  can  extend  to  us  your 
pardon,"  he  said,  for  he  also  came  of  a  whole  race 
of  gentlemen — of  gentlemen  without  shirts  to 
their  backs.  "  I  am  afraid  we  are  trespassing. 
We  have  just  come  over  the  wall." 

"  Over  the  wall  ?  "  repeated  the  smiling  old 
gentleman,  still  without  letting  his  surprise  come 
uppermost. 

"  I  suppose  I  am  not  wrong,  sir,"  continued 
Maclan,  "  in  supposing  that  these  grounds  inside 
the  wall  belong  to  you  ?  " 

The  man  in  the  panama  looked  at  the  ground 
and  smoked  thoughtfully  for  a  few  moments. 
after  which  he  said,  with  a  sort  of  matured  con- 
viction : 

"  Yes,  certainly ;  the  grounds  inside  the  wall 
really  belong  to  me,  and  the  grounds  outside  the 
wall,  too." 

"  A  large  proprietor,  I  imagine,"  said  Turn- 
bull,  with  a  truculent  eye. 

"  Yes,"  answered  the  old  gentleman,  looking 


262    THE    BALL   AND    THE    CROSS 

at  him  with  a  steady  smile.  "  A  large  pro- 
prietor." 

Turnbull's  eye  grew  even  more  offensive,  and 
he  began  biting  his  red  beard;  but  Maclan 
seemed  to  recognise  a  type  with  which  he  could 
deal  and  continued  quite  easily : 

"  I  am  sure  that  a  man  like  you  will  not  need 
to  be  told  that  one  sees  and  does  a  good  many 
things  that  do  not  get  into  the  newspapers. 
Things  which,  on  the  whole,  had  better  not  get 
into  the  newspapers." 

The  smile  of  the  large  proprietor  broadened 
for  a  moment  under  his  loose,  light  moustache, 
and  the  other  continued  with  increased  confi- 
dence : 

"  One  sometimes  wants  to  have  it  out  with 
another  man.  The  police  won't  allow  it  in  the 
streets — and  then  there's  the  County  Council — 
and  in  the  fields  even  nothing's  allowed  but 
posters  of  pills.  But  in  a  gentleman's  garden, 
now " 

The  strange  gentleman  smiled  again  and  said, 
easily  enough:  "Do  you  want  to  fight?  What 
do  you  want  to  fight  about?  " 

Maclan  had  understood  his  man  pretty  well  up 
to  that  point ;  an  instinct  common  to  all  men  with 


THE    GARDEN    OF    PEACE         263 

the  aristocratic  tradition  of  Europe  had  guided 
him.  He  knew  that  the  kind  of  man  who  in  his 
own  back  garden  wears  good  clothes  and  spoils 
them  with  a  bad  hat  is  not  the  kind  of  man  who 
has  an  abstract  horror  of  illegal  actions  or  vio- 
lence or  the  evasion  of  the  police.  But  a  man 
may  Understand  ragging  and  yet  be  very  far  from 
understanding  religious  ragging.  This  seeming 
host  of  theirs  might  comprehend  a  quarrel  of 
husband  and  lover  or  a  difficulty  at  cards  or  even 
escape  from  a  pursuing  tailor;  but  it  still  re- 
mained doubtful  whether  he  would  feel  the  earth 
fail  under  him  in  that  earthquake  instant  when 
the  Virgin  is  compared  to  a  goddess  of  Mesopo- 
tamia. Even  Maclan,  therefore  (whose  tact  was 
far  from  being  his  strong  point),  felt  the  neces- 
sity for  some  compromise  in  the  mode  of  ap- 
proach. At  last  he  said,  and  even  then  with 
hesitation : 

"  We  are  fighting  about  God ;  there  can  be 
nothing  so  important  as  that." 

The  tilted  eyeglasses  of  the  old  gentleman 
fell  abruptly  from  his  nose,  and  he  thrust  his 
aristocratic  chin  so  far  forward  that  his 
lean  neck  seemed  to  shoot  out  longer  like  a  tele- 
scope. 


264    THE    BALL    AND    THE    CROSS 

"  About  God  ?  "  he  queried,  in  a  key  com- 
pletely new. 

"  Look  here !  "  cried  Turnbull,  taking  his  turn 
roughly,  "  I'll  tell  you  what  it's  all  about.  I  think 
that  there's  no  God.  I  take  it  that  it's  nobody's 
business  but  mine — or  God's,  if  there  is  one.  This 
young  gentleman  from  the  Highlands  happens  to 
think  that  it's  his  business.  In  consequence,  he 
first  takes  a  walking-stick  and  smashes  my  shop ; 
then  he  takes  the  same  walking-stick  and  tries  to 
smash  me.  To  this  I  naturally  object.  I  suggest 
that  if  it  comes  to  that  we  should  both  have 
sticks.  He  improves  on  the  suggestion  and 
proposes  that  we  should  both  have  steel- 
pointed  sticks.  The  police  (with  character- 
istic unreasonableness)  will  not  accept  either 
of  our  proposals;  the  result  is  that  we  run 
about  dodging  the  police  and  have  jumped  over 
your  garden-wall  into  your  magnificent  garden 
to  throw  ourselves  on  your  magnificent  hospi- 
tality." 

The  face  of  the  old  gentleman  had  grown  red- 
der and  redder  during  this  address,  but  it  was 
still  smiling;  and  when  he  broke  out  it  was  with 
a  kind  of  gufifaw. 

"  So  you   really  want   to  fight   with   drawn 


THE    GARDEN    OF    PEACE         265 

swords  in  my  garden,"  he  asked,  "  about  whether 
there  is  really  a  God?  " 

"Why  not?"  said  Maclan,  with  his  simple 
monstrosity  of  speech ;  "  all  man's  worship  began 
when  the  Garden  of  Eden  was  founded." 

"  Yes,  by !  "  said  Turnbull,  with  an  oath, 

"  and  ended  when  the  Zoological  Gardens  were 
founded." 

"  In  this  garden !  In  my  presence !  "  cried  the 
stranger,  stamping  up  and  down  the  gravel  and 
choking  with  laughter,  "  whether  there  is  a 
God !  "  And  he  went  stamping  up  and  down  the 
garden,  making  it  echo  with  his  unintelligible 
laughter.  Then  he  came  back  to  them  more  com- 
posed and  wiping  his  eyes. 

"  Why,  how  small  the  world  is!  "  he  cried  at 
last.  "  I  can  settle  the  whole  matter.  Why,  I 
am  God !  " 

And  he  suddenly  began  to  kick  and  wave  his 
well-clad  legs  about  the  lawn. 

"  You  are  what  ?  "  repeated  Turnbull,  in  a  tone 
which  is  beyond  description. 

"Why,  God,  of  course!  "  answered  the  other, 
thoroughly  amused.  "  How  funny  it  is  to  think 
that  you  have  tumbled  over  a  garden-wall  and 
fallen  exactly  on  the  right  person!    You  might 


266    THE    BALL   AND    THE    CROSS 

have  gone  floundering-  about  in  all  sorts  of 
churches  and  chapels  and  colleges  and  schools  of 
philosophy  looking  for  some  evidence  of  the  ex- 
istence of  God.  Why,  there  is  no  evidence,  ex- 
cept seeing  him.  And  now  you've  seen  him. 
You've  seen  him  dance !  " 

And  the  obliging  old  gentleman  instantly  stood 
on  one  leg  without  relaxing  at  all  the  grave  and 
cultured  benignity  of  his  expression. 

*'  I  understood  that  this  garden — "  began  the 
bewildered  Maclan, 

"  Quite  so !  Quite  so !  "  said  the  man  on  one 
leg,  nodding  gravely.  "  I  said  this  garden  be- 
longed to  me  and  the  land  outside  it.  So  they  do. 
So  does  the  country  beyond  that  and  the  sea  be- 
yond that  and  all  the  rest  of  the  earth.  So  does 
the  moon.  So  do  the  sun  and  stars."  And  he 
added,  with  a  smile  of  apology :  "  You  see,  I'm 
God." 

Turnbull  and  Maclan  looked  at  him  for  one 
moment  with  a  sort  of  notion  that  perhaps  he  was 
not  too  old  to  be  merely  playing  the  fool.  But 
after  staring  steadily  for  an  instant  Turnbull  saw 
the  hard  and  horrible  earnestness  in  the  man's 
eyes  behind  all  his  empty  animation.  Then 
Turnbull  looked  very  gravely  at  the  strict  gravel 


THE   GARDEN    OF    PEACE        267 

walks  and  the  gay  flower-beds  and  the  long  rec- 
tangular red-brick  building,  which  the  mist  had 
left  evident  beyond  them.  Then  he  looked  at 
Maclan. 

Almost  at  the  same  moment  another  man  came 
walking  quickly  round  the  regal  clump  of  rhodo- 
dendrons. He  had  the  look  of  a  prosperous 
banker,  wore  a  good  tall  silk  hat,  was  almost 
stout  enough  to  burst  the  buttons  of  a  fine  frock- 
coat;  but  he  was  talking  to  himself,  and  one  of 
his  elbows  had  a  singular  outward  jerk  as  he 
went  by. 


CHAPTER    XIV 


A    MUSEUM   OF   SOULS 


The  man  with  the  good  hat  and  the  jumping 
elbow  went  by  very  quickly ;  yet  the  man  with  the 
bad  hat,  who  thought  he  was  God,  overtook  him. 
He  ran  after  him  and  jumped  over  a  bed  of  gera- 
niums to  catch  him. 

"  I  beg  your  Majesty's  pardon,"  he  said,  with 
mock  humility,  "  but  here  is  a  quarrel  which  you 
ought  really  to  judge." 

Then  as  he  led  the  heavy,  silk-hatted  man  back 
toward  the  group,  he  caught  Maclan's  ear  in 
order  to  whisper :  "  This  poor  gentleman  is  mad ; 
he  thinks  he  is  Edward  VH."  At  this  the  self- 
appointed  Creator  slightly  winked.  "  Of  course 
you  won't  trust  him  much ;  come  to  me  for  every- 
thing. But  in  my  position  one  has  to  meet  so 
many  people.     One  has  to  be  broadminded." 

The  big  banker  in  the  black  frock-coat  and  hat 
was  standing  quite  grave  and  dignified  on  the 
lawn,  save  for  his  slight  twitch  of  one  limb,  and 
268 


A    MUSEUM    OF    SOULS  269 

he  did  not  seem  by  any  means  unworthy  of  the 
part  which  the  other  promptly  forced  upon  him. 

"  My  dear  fellow,"  said  the  man  in  the  straw 
hat,  "  these  two  gentlemen  are  going  to  fight  a 
duel  of  the  utmost  importance.  Your  own  royal 
position  and  my  much  humbler  one  surely  indi- 
cate us  as  the  proper  seconds.  Seconds — yes,  sec- 
onds— "  and  here  the  speaker  was  once  more 
shaken  with  his  old  malady  of  laughter. 

"  Yes,  you  and  I  are  both  seconds — and  these 
two  gentlemen  can  obviously  fight  in  front  of  us. 
You,  he-he,  are  the  king.  I  am  God ;  really,  they 
could  hardly  have  better  supporters.  They  have 
come  to  the  right  place." 

Then  Turnbull,  who  had  been  staring  with  a 
frown  at  the  fresh  turf,  burst  out  with  a  rather 
bitter  laugh  and  cried,  throwing  his  red  head  in 
the  air : 

"  Yes,  by  God,  Maclan,  I  think  we  have  come 
to  the  right  place!"  And  Maclan  answered, 
with  an  adamantine  stupidity  : 

"  Any  place  is  the  right  place  where  they  will 
let  us  do  it." 

There  was  a  long  stillness,  and  their  eyes  invol- 
untarily took  in  the  landscape,  as  they  had  taken 
in  all  the  landscapes  of  their  everlasting  combat ; 


270    THE    BALL   AND    THE    CROSS 

the  bright,  square  garden  behind  the  shop;  the 
whole  lift  and  leaning  of  the  side  of  Hampstead 
Heath;  the  little  garden  of  the  decadent  choked 
with  flowers ;  the  square  of  sand  beside  the  sea  at 
sunrise.  They  both  felt  at  the  same  moment  all 
the  breadth  and  blossoming  beauty  of  that  para- 
dise, the  coloured  trees,  the  natural  and  restful 
nooks  and  also  the  great  wall  of  stone — more 
awful  than  the  wall  of  China — from  which  no 
flesh  could  flee. 

Turnbull  was  moodily  balancing  his  sword  in 
his  hand  as  the  other  spoke;  then  he  started,  for 
a  mouth  whispered  quite  close  to  his  ear.  With 
a  softness  incredible  in  any  cat,  the  huge,  heavy 
man  in  the  black  hat  and  frock-coat  had  crept 
across  the  lawn  from  his  own  side  and  was  say- 
ing in  his  ear :  "  Don't  trust  that  second  of  yours. 
He's  mad  and  not  so  mad,  either ;  for  he's  fright- 
fully cunning  and  sharp.  Don't  believe  the  story 
he  tells  you  about  why  I  hate  him.  I  know  the 
story  he'll  tell;  I  overheard  it  when  the  house- 
keeper was  talking  to  the  postman.  It's  too  long 
to  talk  about  now,  and  I  expect  we're  watched, 
but " 

Something  in  Turnbull  made  him  want  sud- 
denly to  be  sick  on  the  grass;  the  mere  healthy 


A    MUSEUM    OF    SOULS  271 

and  heathen  horror  of  the  unclean;  the  mere  in- 
humane hatred  of  the  inhuman  state  of  madness. 
He  seemed  to  hear  all  round  him  the  hateful 
whispers  of  that  place,  innumerable  as  leaves 
whispering  in  the  wind,  and  each  of  them  telling 
eagerly  some  evil  that  had  not  happened  or  some 
terrific  secret  which  was  not  true.  All  the  ration- 
alist and  plain  man  revolted  within  him  against 
bowing  down  for  a  moment  in  that  forest  of  de- 
ception and  egotistical  darkness.  He  wanted  to 
blow  up  that  palace  of  delusions  with  dynamite; 
and  in  some  wild  way,  which  I  will  not  defend, 
he  tried  to  do  it. 

He  looked  across  at  Maclan  and  said :  "  Oh,  I 
can't  stand  this !  " 

"  Can't  stand  what?  "  asked  his  opponent,  eye- 
ing him  doubtfully. 

"  Shall  we  say  the  atmosphere?"  replied  Turn- 
bull  ;  "  one  can't  use  uncivil  expressions  even  to 
a — deity.  The  fact  is,  I  don't  like  having  God 
for  my  second." 

"  Sir !  "  said  that  being  in  a  state  of  great 
offence,  "  in  my  position  I  am  not  used  to  hav- 
ing my  favours  refused.  Do  you  know  who 
lam?" 

The  editor  of  "  The  Atheist  "  turned  upon  him 


272    THE    BALL   AND    THE    CROSS 

like  one  who  has  lost  all  patience,  and  exploded : 
"Yes,  you  are  God,  aren't  you?"  he  said,  ab- 
ruptly, "  why  do  we  have  two  sets  of  teeth?  " 

"Teeth?*'  spluttered  the  genteel  lunatic; 
"teeth?" 

"  Yes,"  cried  Turnbull,  advancing  on  him 
swiftly  and  with  animated  gestures,  "  why  does 
teething  hurt?  Why  do  growing  pains  hurt? 
Why  are  measles  catching?  Why  does  a  rose 
have  thorns?  Why  do  rhinoceroses  have 
horns  ?  Why  is  the  horn  on  the  top  of  the  nose  ? 
Why  haven't  I  a  horn  on  the  top  of  my  nose, 
eh  ? "  And  he  struck  the  bridge  of  his  nose 
smartly  with  his  forefinger  to  indicate  the  place 
of  the  omission  and  then  wagged  the  finger  men- 
acingly at  the  Creator. 

"  I've  often  wanted  to  meet  you,"  he  resumed, 
sternly,  after  a  pause,  "  to  hold  you  accountable 
for  all  the  idiocy  and  cruelty  of  this  muddled  and 
meaningless  world  of  yours.  You  make  a  hun- 
dred seeds  and  only  one  bears  fruit.  You  make 
a  million  worlds  and  only  one  seems  inhabited. 
What  do  you  mean  by  it,  eh  ?  What  do  you  mean 
by  it?" 

The  unhappy  lunatic  had  fallen  back  before 
this  quite  novel  form  of  attack,   and  lifted  his 


A    MUSEUM    OF    SOULS  273 

burnt-out  cigarette  almost  like  one  warding  off  a 
blow.    Turnbull  went  on  like  a  torrent. 

"  A  man  died  yesterday  in  Ealing.  You  mur- 
dered him.  A  girl  had  the  toothache  in  Croy- 
don. You  gave  it  her.  Fifty  sailors  were 
drowned  off  Selsey  Bill.  You  scuttled  their 
ship.  What  have  you  got  to  say  for  yourself, 
eh?" 

The  representative  of  omnipotence  looked  as  if 
he  had  left  most  of  these  things  to  his  subordi- 
nates ;  he  passed  a  hand  over  his  wrinkling  brow 
and  said  in  a  voice  much  saner  than  any  he  had 
yet  used  : 

"  Well,  if  you  dislike  my  assistance,  of  course 
— perhaps  the  other  gentleman " 

"  The  other  gentleman,"  cried  Turnbull,  scorn- 
fully, "  is  a  submissive  and  loyal  and  obedient 
gentleman.  He  likes  the  people  who  wear  crowns, 
whether  of  diamonds  or  of  stars.  He  believes  in 
the  divine  right  of  kings,  and  it  is  appropriate 
enough  that  he  should  have  the  king  for  his  sec- 
ond. But  it  is  not  appropriate  to  me  that  I 
should  have  God  for  my  second.  God  is  not  good 
enough.  I  dislike  and  I  deny  the  divine  right  of 
kings.  But  I  dislike  more  and  I  deny  more  the 
divine  right  of  divinity." 


274    THE    BALL   AND    THE    CROSS 

Then  after  a  pause  in  which  he  swallowed  his 
passion,  he  said  to  Maclan :  "  You  have  got  the 
right  second,  anyhow." 

The  Highlander  did  not  answer,  but  stood  as  if 
thunderstruck  with  one  long  and  heavy  thought. 
Then  at  last  he  turned  abruptly  to  his  second  in 
the  silk  hat  and  said :  "  Who  are  you  ?  " 

The  man  in  the  silk  hat  blinked  and  bridled  in 
affected  surprise,  like  one  w^ho  was  in  truth  accus- 
tomed to  be  doubted. 

"  I  am  King  Edward  VH,"  he  said,  with  shaky 
arrogance.    "  Do  you  doubt  my  word  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  doubt  it  in  the  least,"  answered  Mac- 
Ian. 

"  Then,  why,"  said  the  large  man  In  the  silk 
hat,  trembling  from  head  to  foot,  "  why  do  you 
wear  your  hat  before  the  king?  " 

"  Why  should  I  take  it  off,"  retorted  Maclan, 
with  equal  heat,  "  before  a  usurper  ?  " 

Turnbull  swung  round  on  his  heel.  "  Well, 
really,"  he  said,  "  I  thought  at  least  you  were  a 
loyal  subject." 

"  I  am  the  only  loyal  subject,"  answered  the 
Gael.  "  For  nearly  thirty  years  I  have  walked 
these  islands  and  have  not  found  another." 

"  You  are  always  hard  to  follow,"  remarked 


A    MUSEUM    OF    SOULS  275 

Turnbull,  genially,  "  and  sometimes  so  much  so 
as  to  be  hardly  worth  following." 

"I  alone  am  loyal,"  insisted  Maclan;  "for 
I  alone  am  in  rebellion.  I  am  ready  at  any  in- 
stant to  restore  the  Stuarts.  I  am  ready  at  any 
instant  to  defy  the  Hanoverian  brood — and  I 
defy  it  now  even  when  face  to  face  with  the  actual 
ruler  of  the  enormous  British  Empire !  " 

And  folding  his  arms  and  throwing  back  his 
lean,  hawklike  face,  he  haughtily  confronted  the 
man  with  the  formal  frock-coat  and  the  eccentric 
elbow. 

"  What  right  had  you  stunted  German 
squires,"  he  cried,  "  to  interfere  in  a  quarrel  be- 
tween Scotch  and  English  and  Irish  gentlemen? 
Who  made  you,  whose  fathers  could  not  splutter 
English  while  they  walked  in  Whitehall,  who 
made  you  the  judge  between  the  republic  of  Sid- 
ney and  the  monarchy  of  Montrose?  What  had 
your  sires  to  do  with  England  that  they  should 
have  the  foul  offering  of  the  blood  of  Derwent- 
water  and  the  heart  of  Jimmy  Dawson  ?  Where 
are  the  corpses  of  Culloden  ?  Where  is  the  blood 
of  Lochiel  ?  "  Maclan  advanced  upon  his  op- 
ponent with  a  bony  and  pointed  finger,  as  if 
indicating  the  exact  pocket  in  which  the  blood 


276    THE    BALL   AND    THE    CROSS 

of  that  Cameron  was  probably  kept;  and  Ed- 
ward Vn  fell  back  a  few  paces  in  considerable 
confusion. 

"  What  good  have  you  ever  done  to  us?  "  he 
continued  in  harsher  and  harsher  accents,  forcing 
the  other  back  toward  the  flower-beds.  "  What 
good  have  you  ever  done,  you  race  of  German 
sausages  ?  Yards  of  barbarian  etiquette,  to  throt- 
tle the  freedom  of  aristocracy!  Gas  of  northern 
metaphysics  to  blow  up  Broad  Church  bishops 
like  balloons.  Bad  pictures  and  bad  manners  and 
pantheism  and  the  Albert  Memorial,  Go  back  to 
Hanover,  you  humbug!    Go  to " 

Before  the  end  of  this  tirade  the  arrogance  of 
the  monarch  had  entirely  given  way;  he  had 
fairly  turned  tail  and  was  trundling  away  down 
the  path.  Maclan  strode  after  him  still  preach- 
ing and  flourishing  his  large,  lean  hands.  The 
other  two  remained  in  the  centre  of  the  lawn — 
Turnbull  in  convulsions  of  laughter,  the  lunatic 
in  convulsions  of  disgust.  Almost  at  the  same 
moment  a  third  figure  came  stepping  swiftly 
across  the  lawn. 

The  advancing  figure  walked  with  a  stoop,  and 
yet  somehow  flung  his  forked  and  narrow  beard 
forward.    That  carefully  cut  and  pointed  yellow 


A    MUSEUM    OF    SOULS  277 

beard  was,  indeed,  the  most  emphatic  thing  about 
him.  When  he  clasped  his  hands  behind  him, 
under  the  tails  of  his  coat,  he  would  wag  his 
beard  at  a  man  Hke  a  big  forefinger.  It  per- 
formed ahnost  all  his  gestures;  it  was  more  im- 
portant than  the  glittering  eyeglasses  through 
which  he  looked  or  the  beautiful  bleating  voice 
in  which  he  spoke.  His  face  and  neck  were  of  a 
lusty  red,  but  lean  and  stringy;  he  always  wore 
his  expensive  gold-rim  eyeglasses  slightly  askew 
upon  his  aquiline  nose;  and  he  always  showed 
two  gleaming  foreteeth  under  his  moustache,  in 
a  smile  so  perpetual  as  to  earn  the  reputation  of  a 
sneer.  But  for  the  crooked  glasses  his  dress  was 
always  exquisite;  and  but  for  the  smile  he  was 
perfectly  and  perennially  depressed. 

"  Don't  you  think,"  said  the  new-comer,  with 
a  sort  of  supercilious  entreaty,  "  that  we  had  bet- 
ter all  come  into  breakfast?  It  is  such  a  mistake 
to  wait  for  breakfast.  It  spoils  one's  temper  so 
much." 

"  Quite  so,"  replied  Turnbull,  seriously. 

"  There  seems  almost  to  have  been  a  little 
quarrelling  here,"  said  the  man  with  the  goatish 
beard. 

"  It   is   rather  a   long  story,"   said  Turnbull, 


2  78    THE    BALL   AND    THE    CROSS 

smiling.  "  Originally  it  might  be  called  a  phase 
in  the  quarrel  between  science  and  religion." 

The  new-comer  started  slightly,  and  Turnbull 
replied  to  the  question  on  his  face. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  he  said,  "  I  am  science !  " 

"  I  congratulate  you  heartily,"  answered  the 
other,  "  I  am  Doctor  Quayle." 

Turnbull's  eyes  did  not  move,  but  he  realised 
that  the  man  in  the  panama  hat  had  lost  all  his 
ease  of  a  landed  proprietor  and  had  withdrawn 
to  a  distance  of  thirty  yards,  where  he  stood  glar- 
ing with  all  the  contraction  of  fear  and  hatred 
that  can  stiffen  a  cat. 

Maclan  was  sitting  somewhat  disconsolately  on 
a  stump  of  tree,  his  large  black  head  half  buried 
in  his  large  brown  hands,  when  Turnbull  strode 
up  to  him  chewing  a  cigarette.  He  did  not  look 
up,  but  his  comrade  and  enemy  addressed  him  like 
one  who  must  free  himself  of  his  feelings. 

"  Well,  I  hope,  at  any  rate,"  he  said,  "  that  you 
like  your  precious  religion  now.  I  hope  you  like 
the  society  of  this  poor  devil  whom  your  damned 
tracts  and  hymns  and  priests  have  driven  out  of 
his  wits.  Five  men  in  this  place,  they  tell  me,  five 
men  in  this  place  who  might  have  been  fathers  of 


A    MUSEUM    OF    SOULS  279 

families,  and  every  one  of  them  thinks  he  is  God 
the  Father.  Oh !  you  may  talk  about  the  ugliness 
of  science,  but  there  is  no  one  here  who  thinks  he 
is  Protoplasm." 

"  They  naturally  prefer  a  bright  part,"  said 
Maclan,  wearily.  "  Protoplasm  is  not  worth  go- 
ing mad  about." 

"  At  least,"  said  Turnbull,  savagely,  "  it  was 
your  Jesus  Christ  who  started  all  this  bosh  about 
being  God." 

For  one  instant  Maclan  opened  the  eyes  of 
battle;  then  his  tightened  lips  took  a  crooked 
smile  and  he  said,  quite  calmly : 

"  No,  the  idea  is  older;  it  was  Satan  who  first 
said  that  he  was  God." 

"  Then,  what,"  asked  Turnbull,  very  slowly,  as 
he  softly  picked  a  flower,  "  what  is  the  difference 
between  Christ  and  Satan?" 

"  It  is  quite  simple,"  replied  the  Highlander. 
"  Christ  descended  into  hell;  Satan  fell  into  it." 

"Does  it  make  much  odds?"  asked  the  free- 
thinker. 

"  It  makes  all  the  odds,"  said  the  other.  "  One 
of  them  wanted  to  go  up  and  went  down;  the 
other  wanted  to  go  down  and  went  up.  A  god 
can  be  humble,  a  devil  can  only  be  humbled." 


28o    THE    BALL   AND    THE    CROSS 

"  Why  are  you  always  wanting  to  humble  a 
man?  "  asked  Turnbull,  knitting  his  brows.  "  It 
affects  me  as  ungenerous." 

"  Why  were  you  wanting  to  humble  a  god 
when  you  found  him  in  this  garden  ? "  asked 
Maclan. 

"  That  was  an  extreme  case  of  impudence," 
said  Maclan. 

"  Granting  the  man  his  almighty  pretensions,  I 
think  he  was  very  modest,"  said  Maclan.  "  It  is 
we  who  are  arrogant,  who  know  we  are  only 
men.  The  ordinary  man  in  the  street  is  more  of 
a  monster  than  that  poor  fellow;  for  the  man  in 
the  street  treats  himself  as  God  Almighty  when 
he  knows  he  isn't.  He  expects  the  universe  to 
turn  round  him,  though  he  know^s  he  isn't  the 
centre." 

"  Well,"  said  Turnbull,  sitting  down  on  the 
grass,  "  this  is  a  digression,  anyhow.  What  I 
want  to  point  out  is,  that  your  faith  does  end  in 
asylums  and  my  science  doesn't." 

"  Doesn't  it,  by  George!"  cried  Maclan,  scorn- 
fully. "  There  are  a  few  men  here  who  are  mad 
on  God  and  a  few  w^ho  are  mad  on  the  Bible. 
But  I  bet  there  are  many  more  who  are  simply 
mad  on  madness." 


A    MUSEUM    OF    SOULS 


281 


"  Do  you  really  believe  it?  "  asked  the  other. 

"  Scores  of  them,  I  should  say,"  answered 
Maclan.  "  Fellows  who  have  read  medical  books 
or  fellows  whose  fathers  and  uncles  had  some- 
thing hereditary  in  their  heads — the  whole  air 
they  breathe  is  mad." 

"  All  the  same,"  said  Turnbull,  shrewdly,  "  I 
bet  you  haven't  found  a  madman  of  that  sort." 

"  I  bet  I  have !  "  cried  Evan,  with  unusual  ani- 
mation. "  Fve  been  walking  about  the  garden 
talking  to  a  poor  chap  all  the  morning.  He's  sim- 
ply been  broken  down  and  driven  raving  by  your 
damned  science.  Talk  about  believing  one  is  God 
— why,  it's  quite  an  old,  comfortable,  fireside 
fancy  compared  with  the  sort  of  things  this  fel- 
low believes.  He  believes  that  there  is  a  God,  but 
that  he  is  better  than  God.  He  says  God  will  be 
afraid  to  face  him.  He  says  one  is  always  pro- 
gressing beyond  the  best.  He  put  his  arm  in 
mine  and  whispered  in  my  ear,  as  if  it  were  the 
apocalypse  :  *  Never  trust  a  God  that  you  can't  im- 
prove on.'  " 

"  What  can  he  have  meant  ?  "  said  the  athe- 
ist, with  all  his  logic  awake.  "  Obviously  one 
should  not  trust  any  God  that  one  can  improve 
on." 


282    THE    BALL   AND    THE    CROSS 

"  It  is  the  way  he  talks,"  said  Maclan,  almost 
indifferently ;  "  but  he  says  rummier  things  than 
that.  He  says  that  a  man's  doctor  ought  to  de- 
cide what  woman  he  marries;  and  he  says  that 
children  ought  not  to  be  brought  up  by  their 
parents,  because  a  physical  partiality  will  then 
distort  the  judgment  of  the  educator." 

"  Oh,  dear !  "  said  Turnbull,  laughing,  "  you 
have  certainly  come  across  a  pretty  bad  case, 
and  incidentally  proved  your  own.  I  suppose 
some  men  do  lose  their  wits  through  science  as 
through  love  and  other  good  things." 

"  And  he  says,"  went  on  Maclan,  monoto- 
nously, "  that  he  cannot  see  why  any  one  should 
suppose  that  a  triangle  is  a  three-sided  figure. 
He  says  that  on  some  higher  plane " 

Turnbull  leapt  to  his  feet  as  by  an  electric 
shock.  *'  I  never  could  have  believed,"  he  cried, 
"  that  you  had  humour  enough  to  tell  a  lie. 
You've  gone  a  bit  too  far,  old  man,  with  your  lit- 
tle joke.  Even  in  a  lunatic  asylum  there  can't  be 
anybody  who,  having  thought  about  the  matter, 
thinks  that  a  triangle  has  not  got  three  sides.  If 
he  exists  he  must  be  a  new  era  in  human  psychol- 
ogy.   But  he  doesn't  exist." 

"  I    will    go   and    fetch   him,"    said   Maclan, 


A   MUSEUM    OF    SOULS  283 

calmly;  "  I  left  the  poor  fellow  wandering  about 
by  the  nasturtium  bed." 

Maclan  vanished,  and  in  a  few  moments  re- 
turned, trailing  with  him  his  own  discovery 
among  lunatics,  who  was  a  slender  man  with  a 
fixed  smile  and  an  unfixed  and  rolling  head.  He 
had  a  goatlike  beard  just  long  enough  to  be 
shaken  in  a  strong  wind.  Turnbull  sprang  to  his 
feet  and  was  like  one  who  is  speechless  through 
choking  a  sudden  shout  of  laughter. 

"  Why,  you  great  donkey,"  he  shouted,  in  an 
ear-shattering  whisper,  "  that's  not  one  of  the  pa- 
tients at  all.    That's  one  of  the  doctors." 

Evan  looked  back  at  the  leering  head  with  the 
long-pointed  beard  and  repeated  the  word  in- 
quiringly :  "  One  of  the  doctors?  " 

"  Oh,  you  know  what  I  mean,"  said  Turnbull, 
impatiently.  "  The  medical  authorities  of  the 
place." 

Evan  was  still  staring  back  curiously  at  the 
beaming  and  bearded  creature  behind  him. 

"  The  mad  doctors,"  said  Turnbull,  shortly. 

"  Quite  so,"  said  Maclan. 

After  a  rather  restless  silence  Turnbull  plucked 
Maclan  by  the  elbow  and  pulled  him  aside. 

"  For  goodness  sake,"  he  said,  "  don't  offend 


284    THE    BALL   AND    THE    CROSS 

this  fellow;  he  may  be  as  mad  as  ten  hatters, 
if  you  like,  but  he  has  us  between  his  fin- 
ger and  thumb.  This  is  the  very  time  he  ap- 
pointed to  talk  with  us  about  our — well,  our 
exeat." 

"  But  what  can  it  matter  ?  "  asked  the  wonder- 
ing Maclan.  "  He  can't  keep  us  in  the  asylum. 
We're  not  mad." 

"  Jackass ! "  said  Turnbull,  heartily,  "  of 
course  we're  not  mad.  Of  course,  if  we  are 
medically  examined  and  the  thing  is  thrashed 
out,  they  will  find  we  are  not  mad.  But  don't  you 
see  that  if  the  thing  is  thrashed  out  it  will  mean 
letters  to  this  reference  and  telegrams  to  that; 
and  at  the  first  word  of  who  we  are,  we  shall  be 
taken  out  of  a  madhouse^  where  we  may  smoke, 
to  a  gaol,  where  we  mayn't.  No,  if  we  manage 
this  very  quietly,  he  may  merely  let  us  out  at  the 
front  door  as  stray  revellers.  If  there's  half  an 
hour  of  inquiry,  we  are  cooked." 

Maclan  looked  at  the  grass  frowningly  for  a 
few  seconds,  and  then  said  in  a  new,  small  and 
childish  voice :  "  I  am  awfully  stupid,  Mr.  Turn- 
bull  ;  you  must  be  patient  with  me." 

Turnbull  caught  Evan's  elbow  again  with 
quite  another  gesture.     "  Come,"  he  cried,  with 


A    MUSEUM    OF    SOULS  285 

the  harsh  voice  of  one  who  hides  emotion, 
"  come  and  let  us  be  tactful  in  chorus." 

The  doctor  with  the  pointed  beard  was  already 
slanting  it  forward  at  a  more  than  usually  acute 
angle,  with  the  smile  that  expressed  expectancy. 

"  I  hope  I  do  not  hurry  you,  gentlemen,"  he 
said,  with  the  faintest  suggestion  of  a  sneer  at 
their  hurried  consultation,  "  but  I  believe  you 
wanted  to  see  me  at  half -past  eleven." 

"  I  am  most  awfully  sorry,  doctor,"  said  Turn- 
bull,  with  ready  amiability;  "I  never  meant  to 
keep  you  waiting;  but  the  silly  accident  that  has 
landed  us  in  your  garden  may  have  some  rather 
serious  consequences  to  our  friends  elsewhere, 
and  my  friend  here  was  just  drawing  my  atten- 
tion to  some  of  them." 

"  Quite  so !  Quite  so !  "  said  the  doctor,  hur- 
riedly. "If  you  really  want  to  put  anything  be- 
fore me,  I  can  give  you  a  few  moments  in  my 
consulting  room." 

He  led  them  rapidly  into  a  small  but  imposing 
apartment,  which  seemed  to  be  built  and  fur- 
nished entirely  in  red  varnished  wood.  There 
was  one  desk  occupied  with  carefully  docketed 
papers;  and  there  were  several  chairs  of  the  red 
varnished  wood — though  of  different  shape.    All 


286    THE    BALL   AND    THE    CROSS 

along  the  wall  ran  something  that  might  have 
been  a  bookcase,  only  that  it  was  not  filled  with 
books,  but  with  flat,  oblong  slabs  or  cases  of  the 
same  polished  dark-red  consistency.  What  those 
flat  wooden  cases  were  they  could  form  no  con- 
ception. 

The  doctor  sat  down  with  a  polite  impatience 
on  his  professional  perch;  Maclan  remained 
standing,  but  Turnbull  threw  himself  almost  with 
luxury  into  a  hard  wooden  arm-chair. 

"  This  is  a  most  absurd  business,  doctor,"  he 
said,  "  and  I  am  ashamed  to  take  up  the  time  of 
busy  professional  men  with  such  pranks  from 
outside.  The  plain  fact  is,  that  he  and  I  and  a 
pack  of  silly  men  and  girls  have  organised  a  game 
across  this  part  of  the  country— a  sort  of  combi- 
nation of  hare  and  hounds  and  hide  and  seek — 
I  daresay  you've  heard  of  it.  We  are  the  hares, 
and,  seeing  your  high  wall  look  so  inviting,  we 
tumbled  over  it,  and  naturally  were  a  little  start- 
led with  what  we  found  on  the  other  side." 

"  Quite  so !  "  said  the  doctor,  mildly.  "  I  can 
understand  that  you  were  startled." 

Turnbull  had  expected  him  to  ask  what  place 
was  the  headquarters  of  the  new  exhilarating 
game,  and  who  were  the  male  and  female  enthusi- 


A    MUSEUM    OF    SOULS  287 

asts  who  had  brought  it  to  such  perfection ;  in 
fact,  Turnbull  was  busy  making  up  these  personal 
and  topographical  particulars.  As  the  doctor  did 
not  ask  the  question,  he  grew  slightly  uneasy,  and 
risked  the  question :  "  I  hope  you  will  accept  my 
assurance  that  the  thing  was  an  accident  and  that 
no  intrusion  Vv^as  meant." 

"  Oh,  yes,  sir,"  replied  the  doctor,  smiling,  "  I 
accept  everything  that  you  say." 

"  In  that  case,"  said  Turnbull,  rising  genially, 
"  we  must  not  further  interrupt  your  important 
duties.  I  suppose  there  will  be  some  one  to  let 
us  out  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  the  doctor,  still  smiling  steadily 
and  pleasantly,  "  there  will  be  no  one  to  let  you 
out." 

"  Can  we  let  ourselves  out,  then  ? "  asked 
Turnbull,  in  some  surprise. 

"  Why,  of  course  not,"  said  the  beaming  sci- 
entist ;  "  think  how  dangerous  that  would  be  in  a 
place  like  this." 

"Then,  how  the  devil  are  we  to  get  out?" 
cried  Turnbull,  losing  his  manners  for  the  first 
time. 

"  It  is  a  question  of  time,  of  receptivity,  and 
treatment,"  said  the  doctor,  arching  his  eyebrows 


288    THE    BALL   AND    THE    CROSS 

indifferently.  "  I  do  not  regard  either  of  your 
cases  as  incurable." 

And  with  that  the  man  of  the  world  was  struck 
dumb,  and,  as  in  all  intolerable  moments,  the 
word  was  with  the  unworldly. 

Maclan  took  one  stride  to  the  table,  leant 
across  it,  and  said :  "  We  can't  stop  here,  we're 
not  mad  people !  " 

"  We  don't  use  the  crude  phrase,"  said  the 
doctor,  smiling  at  his  patent-leather  boots. 

"  But  you  can't  think  us  mad,"  thundered  Mac- 
Ian.  "  You  never  saw  us  before.  You  know 
nothing  about  us.  You  haven't  even  examined 
us," 

The  doctor  threw  back  his  head  and  beard. 
"  Oh,  yes,"  he  said,  "  very  thoroughly." 

"  But  you  can't  shut  a  man  up  on  your  mere 
impressions  without  documents  or  certificates  or 
anything?  " 

The  doctor  got  languidly  to  his  feet.  "  Quite 
so,"  he  said.  "  You  certainly  ought  to  see  the 
documents." 

He  went  across  to  the  curious  mock  book- 
shelves and  took  down  one  of  the  flat  mahogany 
cases.  This  he  opened  with  a  curious  key  at  his 
watch-chain,  and  laying  back  a  flap  revealed  a 


A    MUSEUM    OF    SOULS  289 

quire  of  foolscap  covered  with  close  but  quite 
clear  writing.  The  first  three  words  were  in  such 
large  copy-book  hand  that  they  caught  the  eye 
even  at  a  distance.  They  were :  "  Maclan,  Evan 
Stuart." 

Evan  bent  his  angry  eagle  face  over  it;  yet 
something  blurred  it  and  he  could  never  swear  he 
saw  it  distinctly.  He  saw  something  that  be- 
gan :  "  Prenatal  influences  predisposing  to  mania. 
Grandfather  believed  in  return  of  the  Stuarts. 
Mother  carried  bone  of  St.  Eulalia  with  which 
she  touched  children  in  sickness.  Marked  re- 
ligious mania  at  early  age " 

Evan  fell  back  and  fought  for  his  speech. 
"  Oh !  "  he  burst  out  at  last.  "  Oh !  if  all  this 
world  I  have  walked  in  had  been  as  sane  as  my 
mother  was." 

Then  he  compressed  his  temples  with  his 
hands,  as  if  to  crush  them.  And  then  lifted 
suddenly  a  face  that  looked  fresh  and  young, 
as  if  he  had  dipped  and  washed  it  in  some  holy 
well. 

"  Very  well,"  he  cried ;  "  I  will  take  the  sour 
with  the  sweet.  I  will  pay  the  penalty  of  having 
enjoyed  God  in  this  monstrous  modern  earth  that 
cannot  enjoy  man  or  beast.     I  will  die  happy  in 


290    THE    BALL   AND    THE    CROSS 

your  madhouse,  only  because  I  know  what  I 
know.  Let  it  be  granted,  then — Maclan  is  a 
mystic;  Maclan  is  a  maniac.  But  this  honest 
shopkeeper  and  editor  whom  I  have  dragged  on 
my  inhuman  escapades,  you  cannot  keep  him. 
He  will  go  free,  thank  God,  he  is  not  down  in 
any  damned  document.  His  ancestor,  I  am  cer- 
tain, did  not  die  at  Culloden.  His  mother,  I 
swear,  had  no  relics.  Let  my  friend  out  of  your 
front  door,  and  as  for  me " 

The  doctor  had  already  gone  across  to  the 
laden  shelves,  and  after  a  few  minutes'  short- 
sighted peering,  had  pulled  down  another  paral- 
lelogram of  dark-red  wood. 

This  also  he  unlocked  on  the  table,  and  with 
the  same  unerring  egotistic  eye  one  of  the  com- 
pany saw  the  words,  written  in  large  letters: 
"  Turnbull,  James." 

Hitherto  Turnbull  himself  had  somewhat 
scornfully  surrendered  his  part  in  the  whole  busi- 
ness ;  but  he  was  too  honest  and  unaffected  not  to 
start  at  his  own  name.  After  the  name,  the  in- 
scription appeared  to  run :  "  Unique  case  of  Eleu- 
theromania.  Parentage,  as  so  often  in  such  cases, 
prosaic  and  healthy.  Eleutheromaniac  signs  oc- 
curred early,  however,  leading  him  to  attach  him- 


A    MUSEUM    OF    SOULS  291 

self  to  the  individualist  Bradlaugh.  Recent  out- 
break of  pure  anarchy " 

Turnbull  slammed  the  case  to,  almost  smash- 
ing it,  and  said  with  a  burst  of  savage  laughter : 
"  Oh!  come  along,  Maclan;  I  don't  care  so  much, 
even  about  getting  out  of  the  madhouse,  if  only 
we  get  out  of  this  room.  You  were  right  enough, 
Maclan,  when  you  spoke  about — about  mad 
doctors." 

Somehow  they  found  themselves  outside  in  the 
cool,  green  garden,  and  then,  after  a  stunned 
silence,  Turnbull  said :  "  There  is  one  thing  that 
was  puzzling  me  all  the  time,  and  I  understand 
it  now." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  asked  Evan. 

"  No  man  by  will  or  wit,"  answered  Turnbull, 
"  can  get  out  of  this  garden ;  and  yet  we  got  into 
it  merely  by  jumping  over  a  garden-wall.  The 
whole  thing  explains  itself  easily  enough.  That 
undefended  wall  was  an  open  trap.  It  was  a  trap 
laid  for  the  two  celebrated  lunatics.  They  saw  us 
get  in  right  enough.  And  they  will  see  that  we 
do  not  get  out." 

Evan  gazed  at  the  garden-wall,  gravely  for 
more  than  a  minute,  and  then  he  nodded  without 
a  word. 


CHAPTER    XV 


THE   DREAM    OF    MACIAN 


The  system  of  espionage  in  the  asylum  was  so 
effective  and  complete  that  in  practice  the  pa- 
tients could  often  enjoy  a  sense  of  almost  complete 
solitude.  They  could  stray  up  so  near  to  the  wall 
in  an  apparently  unwatched  garden  as  to  find  it 
easy  to  jump  over  it.  They  would  only  have 
found  the  error  of  their  calculations  if  they  had 
tried  to  jump. 

Under  this  insulting  liberty,  in  this  artificial 
loneliness,  Evan  Maclan  was  in  the  habit  of 
creeping  out  into  the  garden  after  dark — es- 
pecially upon  moonlight  nights.  The  moon,  in- 
deed, was  for  him  always  a  positive  mag^iet  in  a 
manner  somewhat  hard  to  explain  to  those  of  a 
robuster  attitude.  Evidently,  Apollo  is  to  the  full 
as  poetical  as  Diana;  but  it  is  not  a  question  of 
poetry  in  the  matured  and  intellectual  sense  of  the 
word.  It  is  a  question  of  a  certain  solid  and 
childish  fancy.  The  sun  is  in  the  strict  and  lit- 
293 


THE    DREAM    OF    MACIAN        293 

eral  sense  invisible;  that  is  to  say,  that  by  our 
bodily  eyes  it  cannot  properly  be  seen.  But  the 
moon  is  a  much  simpler  thing;  a  naked  and  nur- 
sery sort  of  thing.  It  hangs  in  the  sky  quite  solid 
and  quite  silver  and  quite  useless;  it  is  one  huge 
celestial  snowball.  It  was  at  least  some  such  in- 
fantile facts  and  fancies  which  led  Evan  again 
and  again  during  his  dehumanised  imprisonment 
to  go  out  as  if  to  shoot  the  moon. 

He  was  out  in  the  garden  on  one  such  luminous 
and  ghostly  night,  when  the  steady  moonshine 
toned  down  all  the  colours  of  the  garden  until 
almost  the  strongest  tints  to  be  seen  were  the 
strong  soft  blue  of  the  sky  and  the  large  lemon 
moon.  He  was  walking  with  his  face  turned  up 
to  it  in  that  rather  half-witted  fashion  which 
might  have  excused  the  error  of  his  keepers ;  and 
as  he  gazed  he  became  aware  of  something  little 
and  lustrous  flying  close  to  the  lustrous  orb,  like 
a  bright  chip  knocked  off  the  moon.  At  first  he 
thought  it  was  a  mere  sparkle  or  refraction  in  his 
own  eyesight;  he  blinked  and  cleared  his  eyes. 
Then  he  thought  it  was  a  falling  star ;  only  it  did 
not  fall.  It  jerked  awkwardly  up  and  down  in 
a  way  unknown  among  meteors  and  strangely 
reminiscent  of  the  works  of  man.    The  next  mo- 


294    THE    BALL   AND    THE    CROSS 

ment  the  thing  drove  right  across  the  moon,  and 
from  being  silver  upon  blue,  suddenly  became 
black  upon  silver;  then  although  it  passed  the 
field  of  light  in  a  flash  its  outline  was  unmistak- 
able though  eccentric.    It  was  a  flying  ship. 

The  vessel  took  one  long  and  sweeping  curve 
across  the  sky  and  came  nearer  and  nearer  to 
Maclan,  like  a  steam-engine  coming  round  a 
bend.  It  was  of  pure  white  steel,  and  in  the 
moon  it  gleamed  like  the  armour  of  Sir  Galahad. 
The  simile  of  such  virginity  is  not  inappropriate ; 
for,  as  it  grew  larger  and  larger  and  lower  and 
lower,  Evan  saw  that  the  only  figure  in  it  was 
robed  in  white  from  head  to  foot  and  crowned 
with  snow-white  hair,  on  which  the  moonshine 
lay  like  a  benediction.  The  figure  stood  so  still 
that  he  could  easily  have  supposed  it  to  be  a 
statue.  Indeed,  he  thought  it  was  until  it 
spoke. 

"  Evan,"  said  the  voice,  and  it  spoke  with  the 
simple  authority  of  some  forgotten  father  re- 
visiting his  children,  "  you  have  remained  here 
long  enough,  and  your  sword  is  wanted  else- 
where." 

"Wanted  for  what?"  asked  the  young  man, 
accepting  the  monstrous  event  with  a  queer  and 


THE    DREAM    OF    MACIA  295 

clumsy  naturalness ;  *'  what  is  my  sword  wanted 
for?" 

"  For  all  that  you  hold  dear,"  said  the  man 
standing  in  the  moonlight ;  ''for  the  thrones  of 
authority  and  for  all  ancient  loyalty  to  law." 

Evan  looked  up  at  the  lunar  orb  again  as  if  in 
irrational  appeal — a  moon  calf  bleating  to  his 
mother  the  moon.  But  the  face  of  Luna  seemed 
as  witless  as  his  own;  there  is  no  help  in  nature 
against  the  supernatural ;  and  he  looked  again  at 
the  tall  marble  figure  that  might  have  been  made 
out  of  solid  moonlight. 

Then  he  said  in  a  loud  voice :  "Who  are  you?  " 
and  the  next  moment  was  seized  by  a  sort  of 
choking  terror  lest  his  question  should  be  an- 
swered. But  the  unknown  preserved  an  im- 
penetrable silence  for  a  long  space  and  then  only 
answered :  "  I  must  not  say  who  I  am  until  the 
end  of  the  world;  but  I  may  say  what  I  am.  I 
am  the  law." 

And  he  lifted  his  head  so  that  the  moon  smote 
full  upon  his  beautiful  and  ancient  face. 

The  face  was  the  face  of  a  Greek  god  grown 
old,  but  not  grown  either  weak  or  ugly ;  there  was 
nothing  to  break  its  regularity  except  a  rather 
long  chin  with  a  cleft  in  it,  and  this  rather  added 


296    THE    BALL   AND    THE    CROSS 

distinction  than  lessened  beauty.  His  strong, 
well-opened  eyes  were  very  brilliant  but  quite  col- 
ourless like  steel. 

Maclan  was  one  of  those  to  whom  a  reverence 
and  self-submission  in  ritual  come  quite  easy,  and 
are  ordinary  things.  It  was  not  artificial  in  him 
to  bend  slightly  to  this  solemn  apparition  or  to 
lower  his  voice  when  he  said :  "  Do  you  bring  me 
some  message  ?  " 

"  I  do  bring  you  a  message,"  answered  the 
man  of  moon  and  marble.  "  The  king  has  re- 
turned." 

Evan  did  not  ask  for  or  require  any  explana- 
tion. "  I  suppose  you  can  take  me  to  the  war," 
he  said,  and  the  silent  silver  figure  only  bowed  its 
head  again.  Maclan  clambered  into  the  silver 
boat,  and  it  rose  upward  to  the  stars. 

To  say  that  it  rose  to  the  stars  is  no  mere  meta- 
phor, for  the  sky  had  cleared  to  that  occasional 
and  astonishing  transparency  in  which  one  can 
see  plainly  both  stars  and  moon. 

As  the  white-robed  figure  went  upward  in  his 
white  chariot,  he  said  quite  quietly  to  Evan : 
"  There  is  an  answer  to  all  the  folly  talked  about 
equality.  Some  stars  are  big  and  some  small ; 
some  stand  still  and  some  circle  round  them  as 


THE   DREAM    OF    MACIAN        297 

they  stand.  They  can  be  orderly,  but  they  can- 
not be  equal." 

"  They  are  all  very  beautiful,"  said  Evan,  as  if 
in  doubt. 

"  They  are  all  beautiful,"  answered  the  other, 
"  because  each  is  in  his  place  and  owns  his  supe- 
rior. And  now  England  will  be  beautiful  after 
the  same  fashion.  The  earth  will  be  as  beautiful 
as  the  heavens,  because  our  kings  have  come  back 
to  us." 

"  The  Stuart — "  began  Evan,  earnestly, 

"  Yes,"  answered  the  old  man,  "  that  which 
has  returned  is  Stuart  and  yet  older  than  Stuart. 
It  is  Capet  and  Plantagenet  and  Pendragon.  It  is 
all  that  good  old  time  of  which  proverbs  tell,  that 
golden  reign  of  Saturn  against  which  gods  and 
men  were  rebels.  It  is  all  that  was  ever  lost  by 
insolence  and  overwhelmed  in  rebellion.  It  is 
your  own  forefather,  Maclan  with  the  broken 
sword,  bleeding  without  hope  at  Culloden.  It  is 
Charles  refusing  to  answer  the  questions  of  the 
rebel  court.  It  is  Mary  of  the  magic  face  con- 
fronting the  gloomy  and  grasping  peers  and  the 
boorish  moralities  of  Knox,  It  is  Richard,  the 
last  Plantagenet,  giving  his  crown  to  Bolingbroke 
as  to  a  common  brigand.     It  is  Arthur,  over- 


298    THE    BALL    AND    THE    CROSS 

whelmed  in  Lyonesse  by  heathen  armies  and  dy- 
ing in  the  mist,  doubtful  if  ever  he  shall  return." 

"  But  now — "  said  Evan,  in  a  low  voice. 

"  But  now ! "  said  the  old  man ;  "  he  has  re- 
turned." 

"  Is  the  war  still  raging  ?  "  asked  Maclan. 

"  It  rages  like  the  pit  itself  beyond  the  sea 
whither  I  am  taking  you,"  answered  the  other. 
"  But  in  England  the  king  enjoys  his  own  again. 
The  people  are  once  more  taught  and  ruled  as  is 
best;  they  are  happy  knights,  happy  squires, 
happy  servants,  happy  serfs,  if  you  will ;  but  free 
at  last  of  that  load  of  vexation  and  lonely  vanity 
which  was  called  being  a  citizen." 

"  Is  England,  indeed,  so  secure?  "  asked  Evan. 

"  Look  out  and  see,"  said  the  guide.  "  I  fancy 
you  have  seen  this  place  before." 

They  were  driving  through  the  air  toward  one 
region  of  the  sky  where  the  hollow  of  night 
seemed  darkest  and  which  was  quite  without 
stars.  But  against  this  black  background  there 
sprang  up,  picked  out  in  glittering  silver,  a  dome 
and  a  cross.  It  seemed  that  it  was  really  newly 
covered  with  silver,  which  in  the  strong  moon- 
light was  like  white  flame.  But,  however,  cov- 
ered or  painted,  Evan  had  no  difficulty  in  knowing 


THE   DREAM    OF    MACIAN        299 

the  place  again.  He  saw  the  great  thorough- 
fare that  sloped  upward  to  the  base  of  its  huge 
pedestal  of  steps.  And  he  wondered  whether  the 
little  shop  was  still  by  the  side  of  it  and  whether 
its  window  had  been  mended. 

As  the  flying  ship  swept  round  the  dome  he 
observed  other  alterations.  The  dome  had  been 
redecorated  so  as  to  give  it  a  more  solemn  and 
somewhat  more  ecclesiastical  note ;  the  ball  was 
draped  or  destroyed,  and  round  the  gallery,  under 
the  cross,  ran  what  looked  like  a  ring  of  silver 
statues,  like  the  little  leaden  images  that  stood 
round  the  hat  of  Louis  XI.  Round  the  second 
gallery,  at  the  base  of  the  dome,  ran  a  second 
rank  of  such  images,  and  Evan  thought  there  was 
another  round  the  steps  below.  When  they  came 
closer  he  saw  that  they  were  figures  in  complete 
armour  of  steel  or  silver,  each  with  a  naked 
sword,  point  upward ;  and  then  he  saw  one  of  the 
swords  move.  These  were  not  statues  but  an 
armed  order  of  chivalry  thrown  in  three  circles 
round  the  cross.  Maclan  drew  in  his  breath,  as 
children  do  at  anything  they  think  utterly  beau- 
tiful. For  he  could  imagine  nothing  that  so 
echoed  his  own  visions  of  pontifical  or  chivalric 
art  as  this  white  dome  sitting  like  a  vast  silver 


300    THE    BALL   AND    THE    CROSS 

tiara  over  London,  ringed  with  a  triple  crown  of 
swords. 

As  they  went  saiHng  down  Ludgate  Hill,  Evan 
saw  that  the  state  of  the  streets  fully  answered 
his  companion's  claim  about  the  reintroduction 
of  order.  All  the  old  black-coated  bustle  with 
its  cockney  vivacity  and  vulgarity  had  disap- 
peared. Groups  of  labourers,  quietly  but  pic- 
turesquely clad,  were  passing  up  and  down  in  suf- 
ficiently large  numbers ;  but  it  required  but  a  few 
mounted  men  to  keep  the  streets  in  order.  The 
mounted  men  were  not  common  policemen,  but 
knights  with  spur  and  plume  whose  smooth  and 
splendid  armour  glittered  like  diamond  rather 
than  steel.  Only  in  one  place — at  the  corner  of 
Bouverie  Street — did  there  appear  to  be  a  mo- 
ment's confusion,  and  that  was  due  to  hurry 
rather  than  resistance.  But  one  old  grumbling 
man  did  not  get  out  of  the  way  quick  enough, 
and  the  man  on  horseback  struck  him,  not  se- 
verely, across  the  shoulders  with  the  flat  of  his 
sword. 

"  The  soldier  had  no  business  to  do  that,"  said 
Maclan,  sharply,  "  The  old  man  was  moving  as 
quickly  as  he  could." 

"  We  attach  great  importance  to  discipline  in 


THE   DREAM    OF    MACIAN        301 

the  streets,"  said  the  man  in  white,  with  a  sHght 
smile. 

"  DiscipHne  is  not  so  important  as  justice," 
said  Maclan. 

The  other  did  not  answer. 

Then  after  a  swift  silence  that  took  them  out 
across  St.  James's  Park,  he  said :  "  The  people 
must  be  taught  to  obey;  they  must  learn  their 
own  ignorance.  And  I  am  not  sure,"  he  con- 
tinued, turning  his  back  on  Evan  and  looking  out 
of  the  prow  of  the  ship  into  the  darkness,  "  I  am 
not  sure  that  I  agree  with  your  little  maxim 
about  justice.  Discipline  for  the  whole  society  is 
surely  more  important  than  justice  to  an  indi- 
vidual." 

Evan,  who  was  also  leaning  over  the  edge, 
swung  round  with  startling  suddenness  and 
stared  at  the  other's  back. 

"  Discipline  for  society — "  he  repeated,  very 
staccato,  "  more  important — justice  to  indi- 
vidual?" 

Then  after  a  long  silence  he  called  out :  **  Who 
and  what  are  you?  " 

"  I  am  an  angel,"  said  the  white-robed  figure, 
without  turning  round. 

"  You  are  not  a  Catholic,"  said  Maclan. 


302    THE    BALL   AND    THE    CROSS 

The  other  seemed  to  take  no  notice,  but  re- 
verted to  the  main  topic. 

"  In  our  armies  up  in  heaven  we  learn  to  put 
a  wholesome  fear  into  subordinates." 

Maclan  sat  craning  his  neck  forward  with  an 
extraordinary  and  unaccountable  eagerness. 

"  Go  on !  "  he  cried,  twisting  and  untwisting 
his  long,  bony  fingers,  "  go  on !  " 

"  Besides,"  continued  he,  in  the  prow,  "  you 
must  allow  for  a  certain  high  spirit  and  haughti- 
ness in  the  superior  type." 

"  Go  on !  "  said  Evan,  with  burning  eyes. 

"  Just  as  the  sight  of  sin  offends  God,"  said 
the  unknown,  "  so  does  the  sight  of  ugliness  of- 
fend Apollo.  The  beautiful  and  princely  must, 
of  necessity,  be  impatient  with  the  squalid 
and " 

"  Why,  you  great  fool !  "  cried  Maclan,  rising 
to  the  top  of  his  tremendous  stature,  "  did  you 
think  I  would  have  doubted  only  for  that  rap 
with  a  sword?  I  know  that  noble  orders  have 
bad  knights,  that  good  knights  have  bad  tempers, 
that  the  Church  has  rough  priests  and  coarse  car- 
dinals; I  have  known  it  ever  since  I  was  born. 
You  fool !  you  had  only  to  say,  '  Yes,  it  is  rather 
a  shame,'  and  I  should  have  forgotten  the  affair. 


THE   DREAM    OF    MACIAN        303 

But  I  saw  on  your  mouth  the  twitch  of  your  in- 
fernal sophistry;  I  knew  that  something  was 
wrong  with  you  and  your  cathedrals.  Some- 
thing is  wrong;  everything  is  wrong.  You  are 
not  an  angel.  That  is,  not  a  church.  It  is  not  the 
rightful  king  who  has  come  home." 

"  That  is  unfortunate,"  said  the  other,  in  a 
quiet  but  hard  voice,  "  because  you  are  going  to 
see  his  Majesty." 

"  No,"  said  Maclan,  "  I  am  going  to  jump 
over  the  side." 

"  Do  you  desire  death?  " 

"  No,"  said  Evan,  quite  composedly,  "  I  desire 
a  miracle." 

"  From  whom  do  you  ask  it  ?  To  whom  do 
you  appeal  ?  "  said  his  companion,  sternly.  "  You 
have  betrayed  the  king,  renounced  the  cross  on 
the  cathedral,  and  insulted  an  archangel." 

"  I  appeal  to  God,"  said  Evan,  and  sprang  up 
and  stood  upon  the  edge  of  the  swaying  ship. 

The  being  in  the  prow  turned  slowly  round ;  he 
looked  at  Evan  with  eyes  which  were  like  two 
suns,  and  put  his  hand  to  his  mouth  just  too  late 
to  hide  an  awful  smile. 

"  And  how  do  you  know,"  he  said,  "  how  do 
you  know  that  I  am  not  God  ?  " 


304    THE    BALL   AND    THE    CROSS 

Maclan  screamed.  "  Ah !  "  he  cried.  "  Now 
I  know  who  you  really  are.  You  are  not  God. 
You  are  not  one  of  God's  angels.  But  you  were 
once." 

The  being's  hand  dropped  from  his  mouth  and 
Evan  dropped  out  of  the  car. 


CHAPTER    XVI 

THE   DREAM    OF   TURNBULL 

Turn  BULL  was  walking  rather  rampantly  up 
and  down  the  garden  on  a  gusty  evening  chewing 
his  cigar  and  in  that  mood  when  every  man  sup- 
presses an  instinct  to  spit.  He  was  not,  as  a  rule, 
a  man  much  acquainted  with  moods;  and  the 
storms  and  sunbursts  of  Maclan's  soul  passed 
before  him  as  an  impressive  but  unmeaning  pano- 
rama, like  the  anarchy  of  Highland  scenery. 
Turnbull  was  one  of  those  men  in  whom  a  con- 
tinuous appetite  and  industry  of  the  intellect  leave 
the  emotions  very  simple  and  steady.  His  heart 
was  in  the  right  place;  but  he  was  quite  content 
to  leave  it  there.  It  was  his  head  that  was  his 
hobby.  His  mornings  and  evenings  were  marked 
not  by  impulses  or  thirsty  desires,  not  by  hope  or 
by  heart-break;  they  were  filled  with  the  falla- 
cies he  had  detected,  the  problems  he  had  made 
plain,  the  adverse  theories  he  had  wrestled  with 
and  thrown,  the  grand  generalisations  he  had 
305 


3o6    THE    BALL   AND    THE    CROSS 

justified.  But  even  the  cheerful  inner  Hfe  of  a 
logician  may  be  upset  by  a  lunatic  asylum,  to 
say  nothing  of  whiffs  of  memory  from  a  lady 
in  Jersey,  and  the  little  red-bearded  man  on  this 
windy  evening  was  in  a  dangerous  frame  of 
mind. 

Plain  and  positive  as  he  was,  the  influence  of 
earth  and  sky  may  have  been  greater  on  him  than 
he  imagined;  and  the  weather  that  walked  the 
world  at  that  moment  was  as  red  and  angry  as 
Turnbull.  Long  strips  and  swirls  of  tattered  and 
tawny  cloud  were  dragged  downward  to  the  west 
exactly  as  torn  red  raiment  would  be  dragged. 
And  so  strong  and  pitiless  was  the  wind  that  it 
whipped  away  fragments  of  red-flowering  bushes 
or  of  copper  beech,  and  drove  them  also  across 
the  garden,  a  drift  of  red  leaves,  like  the  leaves 
of  autumn,  as  in  parody  of  the  red  and  driven 
rags  of  cloud. 

There  was  a  sense  in  earth  and  heaven  as  of 
everything  breaking  up,  and  all  the  revolutionist 
in  Turnbull  rejoiced- that  it  was  breaking  up.  The 
trees  were  breaking  up  under  the  wind,  even  in 
the  tall  strength  of  their  bloom :  the  clouds  were 
breaking  up  and  losing  even  their  large  heraldic 
shapes.     Shards  and  shreds  of  copper  cloud  split 


THE   DREAM    OF   TURNBULL     307 

off  continually  and  floated  by  themselves,  and  for 
some  reason  the  truculent  eye  of  Tumbull  was 
attracted  to  one  of  these  careering  cloudlets, 
which  seemed  to  him  to  career  in  an  exaggerated 
manner.  Also  it  kept  its  shape,  which  is  unusual 
with  clouds  shaken  off;  also  its  shape  was  of  an 
odd  sort. 

Turnbull  continued  to  stare  at  it,  and  in  a  little 
time  occurred  that  crucial  instant  when  a  thing, 
however  incredible,  is  accepted  as  a  fact.  The 
copper  cloud  was  tumbling  down  toward  the 
earth,  like  some  gigantic  leaf  from  the  copper 
beeches.  And  as  it  came  nearer  it  was  evident, 
first,  that  it  was  not  a  cloud,  and,  second,  that 
it  was  not  itself  of  the  colour  of  copper ;  only,  be- 
ing burnished  like  a  mirror,  it  had  reflected  the 
red-brown  colours  of  the  burning  clouds.  As  the 
thing  whirled  like  a  wind-swept  leaf  down  toward 
the  wall  of  the  garden  it  was  clear  that  it  was 
some  sort  of  air-ship  made  of  metal,  and  slapping 
the  air  with  big  broad  fins  of  steel.  When  it  came 
about  a  hundred  feet  above  the  garden,  a  shaggy, 
lean  figure  leapt  up  in  it,  almost  black  against  the 
bronze  and  scarlet  of  the  west,  and,  flinging  out 
a  kind  of  hook  or  anchor,  caught  on  to  the  green 
apple-tree  just  under  the  wall ;  and  from  that  fixed 


3o8    THE    BALL    AND    THE    CROSS 

holding  ground  the  ship  swung  in  the  red  tempest 
Hke  a  captive  balloon. 

While  our  friend  stood  frozen  for  an  instant  by 
his  astonishment,  the  queer  figure  in  the  airy  car 
tipped  the  vehicle  almost  upside  down  by  leaping 
over  the  side  of  it,  seemed  to  slide  or  drop  down 
the  rope  like  a  monkey,  and  alighted  (with  impos- 
sible precision  and  placidity)  seated  on  the  edge 
of  the  wall,  over  which  he  kicked  and  dangled  his 
legs  as  he  grinned  at  Turnbull.  The  wind  roared 
in  the  trees  yet  more  ruinous  and  desolate,  the 
red  tails  of  the  sunset  were  dragged  downward 
like  red  dragons  sucked  down  to  death,  and 
still  on  the  top  of  the  asylum  wall  sat  the  sin- 
ister figure  with  the  grimace,  swinging  his 
feet  in  tune  with  the  tempest;  while  above  him, 
at  the  end  of  its  tossing  or  tightened  cord,  the 
enormous  iron  air-ship  floated  as  light  and  as 
little  noticed  as  a  baby's  balloon  upon  its 
string. 

Turnbull's  first  movement  after  sixty  motion- 
less seconds  was  to  turn  round  and  look  at  the 
large,  luxuriant  parallelogram  of  the  garden  and 
the  long,  low  rectangular  building  beyond.  There 
was  not  a  soul  or  a  stir  of  life  within  sight.  And 
he  had  a  quite  meaningless  sensation,  as  if  there 


THE    DREAM    OF    TURNBULL     309 

never  really  had  been  any  one  else  there  except  he 
since  the  foundation  of  the  world. 

Stiffening  in  himself  the  masculine  but  mirth- 
less courage  of  the  atheist,  he  drew  a  little  nearer 
to  the  wall  and,  catching  the  man  at  a  slightly 
different  angle  of  the  evening  light,  could  see  his 
face  and  figure  quite  plain.  Two  facts  about  him 
stood  out  in  the  picked  colours  of  some  piratical 
schoolboy's  story.  The  first  was  that  his  lean 
brown  body  was  bare  to  the  belt  of  his  loose  white 
trousers;  the  other  that  through  hygiene,  affecta- 
tion, or  whatever  other  cause,  he  had  a  scarlet 
handkerchief  tied  tightly  but  somewhat  aslant 
across  his  brow.  After  these  two  facts  had  become 
emphatic,  others  appeared  sufficiently  important. 
One  was  that  under  the  scarlet  rag  the  hair  was 
plentiful,  but  white  as  with  the  last  snows  of  mor- 
tality. Another  was  that  under  the  mop  of  white 
and  senile  hair  the  face  was  strong,  handsome, 
and  smiling,  with  a  well-cut  profile  and  a  long 
cloven  chin.  The  length  of  this  lower  part  of  the 
face  and  the  strange  cleft  in  it  (which  gave  the 
man,  in  quite  another  sense  from  the  common  one, 
a  double  chin)  faintly  spoilt  the  claim  of  the  face 
to  absolute  regularity,  but  it  greatly  assisted  it  in 
wearing  the  expression  of  half-smihng  and  half- 


3IO    THE    BALL   AND    THE    CROSS 

sneering  arrogance  with  which  it  was  staring  at 
all  the  stones,  all  the  flowers,  but  especially  at  the 
solitary  man. 

"  What  do  you  want  ?  "  shouted  TurnbuU. 

"  I  want  you,  Jimmy,"  said  the  eccentric  man 
on  the  wall,  and  with  the  very  word  he  had  let 
himself  down  with  a  leap  on  to  the  centre  of  the 
lawn,  where  he  bounded  once  literally  like  an 
India-rubber  ball  and  then  stood  grinning  with 
his  legs  astride.  The  only  three  facts  that  Turn- 
bull  could  now  add  to  his  inventory  were  that  the 
man  had  an  ugly-looking  knife  swinging  at  his 
trousers  belt,  that  his  brown  feet  were  as  bare  as 
his  bronzed  trunk  and  arms,  and  that  his  eyes  had 
a  singular  bleak  brilliancy  which  was  of  no  par- 
ticular colour. 

"  Excuse  my  not  being  in  evening  dress,"  said 
the  new-comer  with  an  urbane  smile.  "  We  sci- 
entific men,  you  know —  I  have  to  work  my 
own  engines —  Electrical  engineer — very  hot 
work," 

"  Look  here,"  said  Turnbull,  sturdily  clench- 
ing his  fists  in  his  trousers  pockets,  "  I  am  bound 
to  expect  lunatics  inside  these  four  walls;  but  I 
do  bar  their  coming  from  outside,  bang  out  of  the 
sunset  clouds." 


THE    DREAM    OF    TURNBULL     311 

"  And  yet  you  came  from  the  outside,  too, 
Jim,"  said  the  stranger  in  a  voice  almost  affec- 
tionate. 

*'  What  do  you  want  ?  "  asked  Turnbull,  with 
an  explosion  of  temper  as  sudden  as  a  pistol  shot. 

"  I  have  already  told  you,"  said  the  man,  low- 
ering his  voice  and  speaking  with  evident  sincer- 
ity; "I  want  you." 

"  What  do  you  want  with  me?  " 

"  I  want  exactly  what  you  want,"  said  the  new- 
comer with  a  new  gravity.  "  I  want  the  Revolu- 
tion." 

Turnbull  looked  at  the  fire-swept  sky  and  the 
wind-stricken  woodlands,  and  kept  on  repeating 
the  word  voicelessly  to  himself — the  word  that 
did  indeed  so  thoroughly  express  his  mood  of 
rage  as  it  had  been  among  those  red  clouds  and 
rocking  tree-tops.  "  Revolution !  "  he  said  to 
himself.  "  The  Revolution —  Yes,  that  is  what  I 
want  right  enough — anything,  so  long  as  it  is  a 
Revolution." 

To  some  cause  he  could  never  explain  he  found 
himself  completing  the  sentence  on  the  top  of  the 
wall,  having  automatically  followed  the  stranger 
so  far.  But  when  the  stranger  silently  indicated 
the  rope  that  led  to  the  machine,  he  found  himself 


312    THE    BALL    AND    THE    CROSS 

pausing  and  saying :  '*  I  can't  leave  Maclan  be- 
hind in  this  den." 

"  We  are  going  to  destroy  the  Pope  and  all  the 
kings,"  said  the  new-comer.  "  Would  it  be  wiser 
to  take  him  with  us?  " 

Somehow  the  muttering  Turnbull  found  him- 
self in  the  flying  ship  also,  and  it  swung  up  into 
the  sunset. 

"  All  the  great  rebels  have  been  very  little 
rebels,"  said  the  man  with  the  red  scarf.  "  They 
have  been  like  fourth-form  boys  who  sometimes 
venture  to  hit  a  fifth-form  boy.  That  was  all 
the  worth  of  their  French  Revolution  and  regi- 
cide. The  boys  never  really  dared  to  defy  the 
schoolmaster." 

"  Whom  do  you  mean  by  the  schoolmaster  ?  " 
asked  Turnbull. 

"  You  know  whom  I  mean,"  answered  the 
strange  man,  as  he  lay  back  on  cushions  and 
looked  up  into  the  angry  sky. 

They  seemed  rising  into  stronger  and  stronger 
sunlight,  as  if  it  were  sunrise  rather  than  sunset. 
But  when  they  looked  down  at  the  earth  they  saw 
it  growing  darker  and  darker.  The  lunatic  asy- 
lum in  its  large  rectangular  grounds  spread  be- 
low them  in  a  foreshortened  and  infantile  plan, 


THE    DREAM    OF    TURNBULL     313 

and  looked  for  the  first  time  the  grotesque  thing 
that  it  was.  But  the  clear  colours  of  the  plan  were 
growing  darker  every  moment.  The  masses  of 
rose  or  rhododendron  deepened  from  crimson  to 
violet.  The  maze  of  gravel  pathways  faded  from 
gold  to  brown.  By  the  time  they  had  risen  a  few 
hundred  feet  higher  nothing  could  be  seen  of  that 
darkening  landscape  except  the  lines  of  lighted 
windows,  each  one  of  which,  at  least,  was  the 
light  of  one  lost  intelligence.  But  on  them  as 
they  swept  upward  better  and  braver  winds 
seemed  to  blow,  and  on  them  the  ruby  light  of 
evening  seemed  struck,  and  splashed  like  red 
spurts  from  the  grapes  of  Dionysus.  Below 
them  the  fallen  lights  were  literally  the  fallen 
stars  of  servitude.  And  above  them  all  the  red 
and  raging  clouds  were  like  the  leaping  flags  of 
liberty. 

The  man  with  the  cloven  chin  seemed  to  have 
a  singular  power  of  understanding  thoughts ;  for, 
as  Turnbull  felt  the  whole  universe  tilt  and  turn 
over  his  head,  the  stranger  said  exactly  the  right 
thing. 

"  Doesn't  it  seem  as  if  everything  were  being 
upset?  "  said  he;  "  and  if  once  everything  is  up- 
set, He  will  be  upset  on  top  of  it." 


314    THE    BALL   AND    THE    CROSS 

Then,  as  Turnbull  made  no  answer,  his  host 
continued : 

"  That  is  the  really  fine  thing  about  space.  It 
is  topsy-turvy.  You  have  only  to  climb  far 
enough  toward  the  morning  star  to  feel  that  you 
are  coming  down  to  it.  You  have  only  to  dive 
deep  enough  into  the  abyss  to  feel  that  you  are 
rising.  That  is  the  only  glory  of  this  universe — • 
it  is  a  giddy  universe." 

Then,  as  Turnbull  was  still  silent,  he  added : 

"  The  heavens  are  full  of  revolution — of  the 
real  sort  of  revolution.  All  the  high  things  sink- 
ing low  and  all  the  big  things  looking  small.  All 
the  people  who  think  they  are  aspiring  find  they 
are  falling  head  foremost.  And  all  the  people 
who  think  they  are  condescending  find  they  are 
climbing  up  a  precipice.  That  is  the  intoxication 
of  space.  That  is  the  only  joy  of  eternity — doubt. 
There  is  only  one  pleasure  the  angels  can  possibly 
have  in  flying,  and  that  is,  that  they  do  not  know 
whether  they  are  on  their  head  or  their  heels." 

Then,  finding  his  companion  still  mute,  he  fell 
himself  into  a  smiling  and  motionless  meditation, 
at  the  end  of  which  he  said  suddenly : 

"  So  Maclan  converted  you  ?  " 

Tumbull  sprang  up  as  if  spurning  the  steel  car 


THE    DREAM    OF   TURNBULL     315 

from  under  his  feet.  "  Converted  me!  "  he  cried. 
"  What  the  devil  do  you  mean  ?  I  have  known 
him  for  a  month,  and  I  have  not  retracted  a  sin- 
gle " 

"  This  CathoHcism  is  a  curious  thing,"  said  the 
man  of  the  cloven  chin  in  uninterrupted  reflect- 
iveness, leaning  his  elegant  elbows  over  the  edge 
of  the  vessel ;  "  it  soaks  and  weakens  men  with- 
out their  knowing  it,  just  as  I  fear  it  has  soaked 
and  weakened  you." 

Turnbull  stood  in  an  attitude  which  might  well 
have  meant  pitching  the  other  man  out  of  the  fly- 
ing ship. 

"  I  am  an  atheist,"  he  said,  in  a  stifled  voice. 
**  I  have  always  been  an  atheist,  I  am  still  an 
atheist."  Then,  addressing  the  other's  indolent 
and  indifferent  back,  he  cried :  "  In  God's  name 
what  do  you  mean  ?  " 

And  the  other  answered  without  turning  round : 

"  I  mean  nothing  in  God's  name." 

Turnbull  spat  over  the  edge  of  the  car  and  fell 
back  furiously  into  his  seat. 

The  other  continued  still  unruffled,  and  staring 
over  the  edge  idly  as  an  angler  stares  down  at  a 
stream. 

"  The  truth  is  that  we  never  thought  that  you 


3i6    THE    BALL    AND    THE    CROSS 

could  have  been  caught,"  he  said ;  "  we  counted 
on  you  as  the  one  red-hot  revokitionary  left  in  the 
world.  But.  of  course,  these  men  like  Maclan  are 
awfully  clever,  especially  when  they  pretend  to  be 
stupid." 

Turnbull  leapt  up  again  in  a  living  fury  and 
cried  :  "  What  have  I  got  to  do  with  Maclan  ?  I 
believe  all  I  ever  believed,  and  disbelieve  all  I  ever 
disbelieved.  What  does  all  this  mean,  and  what 
do  you  want  with  me  here?  " 

Then  for  the  first  time  the  other  lifted  himself 
from  the  edge  of  the  car  and  faced  him. 

"  I  have  brought  you  here,"  he  answered,  "  to 
take  part  in  the  last  war  of  the  world." 

"  The  last  w^ar !  "  repeated  Turnbull,  even  in 
his  dazed  state  a  little  touchy  about  such  a  dog- 
ma ;  "  how  do  you  know  it  w'ill  be  the  last?  " 

The  man  laid  himself  back  in  his  reposeful  at- 
titude, and  said : 

"  It  is  the  last  w-ar,  because  if  it  does  not  cure 
the  w^orld  forever,  it  wall  destroy  it." 

"  What  do  you  mean?  " 

"  I  only  mean  what  you  mean,"  answered  the 
unknown  in  a  temperate  voice.  "  What  was  it 
that  you  always  meant  on  those  million  and 
one    nights    wdien    you    walked    outside    your 


THE    DREAM    OF    TURNBULL     317 

Ludgate  Hill  shop  and  shook  your  hand  in 
the  air  ?  " 

"  Still  I  do  not  see,"  said  Turnbull,  stubbornly. 

'*  You  will  soon,"  said  the  other,  and  abruptly 
bent  downward  one  iron  handle  of  his  huge  ma- 
chine. The  engine  stopped,  stooped,  and  dived 
almost  as  deliberately  as  a  man  bathing ;  in  their 
downward  rush  they  swept  within  fifty  yards  of 
a  big  bulk  of  stone  that  Turnbull  knew  only  too 
well.  The  last  red  anger  of  the  sunset  was  ended ; 
the  dome  of  heaven  was  dark ;  the  lanes  of  flaring 
light  in  the  streets  below  hardly  lit  up  the  base  of 
the  building.  But  he  saw  that  it  was  St.  Paul's 
Cathedral,  and  he  saw  that  on  the  top  of  it  the 
ball  was  still  standing  erect,  but  the  cross  was 
stricken  and  had  fallen  sideways.  Then  only  he 
cared  to  look  down  into  the  streets,  and  saw  that 
they  were  inflamed  with  uproar  and  tossing  pas- 
sions, 

"  We  arrive  at  a  happy  moment,"  said  the  man 
steering  the  ship.  "  The  insurgents  are  bombard- 
ing the  city,  and  a  cannon-ball  has  just  hit  the 
cross.  Many  of  the  insurgents  are  simple  people, 
and  they  naturally  regard  it  as  a  happy  omen." 

"  Quite  so,"  said  Turnbull,  in  a  rather  colour- 
less voice. 


3i8    THE    BALL   AND    THE    CROSS 

"  Yes,"  replied  the  other.  "  I  thought  you 
would  be  glad  to  see  your  prayer  answered.  Of 
course  I  apologise  for  the  word  prayer." 

"  Don't  mention  it,"  said  Turnbull. 

The  flying  ship  had  come  down  upon  a  sort  of 
curve,  and  was  now  rising  again.  The  higher  and 
higher  it  rose  the  broader  and  broader  became 
the  scenes  of  flame  and  desolation  underneath. 

Ludgate  Hill  indeed  had  been  an  uncaptured 
and  comparatively  quiet  height,  altered  only  by 
the  startling  coincidence  of  the  cross  fallen  awry. 
All  the  other  thoroughfares  on  all  sides  of  that 
hill  were  full  of  the  pulsation  and  the  pain  of  bat- 
tle, full  of  shaking  torches  and  shouting  faces. 
When  at  length  they  had  risen  high  enough  to 
have  a  bird's-eye  view  of  the  whole  campaign, 
Turnbull  was  already  intoxicated.  He  had  smelt 
gunpowder,  which  was  the  incense  of  his  own 
revolutionary  religion. 

"  Have  the  people  really  risen  ? "  he  asked, 
breathlessly,    "  What  are  they  fighting  about  ?  " 

"  The  programme  is  rather  elaborate,"  said  his 
entertainer  with  some  indifference,  "  I  think  Dr. 
Hertz  drew  it  up." 

Turnbull  wrinkled  his  forehead.  "  Are  all  the 
poor  people  with  the  Revolution?  "  he  asked. 


THE    DREAM    OF   TURNBULL     319 

The  other  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "  All  the 
instructed  and  class-conscious  part  of  them  with- 
out exception,"  he  replied.  "  There  were  cer- 
tainly a  few  districts ;  in  fact,  we  are  passing  over 
them  just  now " 

TurnbuU  looked  down  and  saw  that  the  pol- 
ished car  was  literally  lit  up  from  underneath  by 
the  far-flung  fires  from  below.  Underneath 
whole  squares  and  solid  districts  were  in  flames, 
like  prairies  or  forests  on  fire. 

"  Dr.  Hertz  has  convinced  everybody,"  said 
Turnbull's  cicerone  in  a  smooth  voice,  "  that  noth- 
ing can  really  be  done  with  the  real  slums.  His 
celebrated  maxim  has  been  quite  adopted.  I  mean 
the  three  celebrated  sentences :  '  No  man  should 
be  unemployed.  Employ  the  employables.  De- 
stroy the  unemployables.'  " 

There  was  a  silence,  and  then  Turnbull  said  in 
a  rather  strained  voice :  "  And  do  I  understand 
that  this  good  work  is  going  on  under  here?  " 

"  Going  on  splendidly,"  replied  his  companion 
in  the  heartiest  voice.  "  You  see,  these  people 
were  much  too  tired  and  weak  even  to  join  the 
social  war.    They  were  a  definite  hindrance  to  it." 

**  And  so  you  are  simply  burning  them  out  ?  " 

"  It  docs  seem  absurdly  simple,"  said  the  man. 


320    THE    BALL   AND    THE    CROSS 

with  a  beaming  smile,  "  when  one  thinks  of  all 
the  worry  and  talk  about  helping  a  hopeless  slave 
population,  when  the  future  obviously  was  only 
crying  to  be  rid  of  them.  There  are  happy  babes 
unborn  ready  to  burst  the  doors  when  these  driv 
.  ellers  are  swept  away." 

"  Will  you  permit  me  to  say,"  said  Turnbull, 
after  reflection,  "  that  I  don't  like  all  this?  " 

"  And  will  you  permit  me  to  say,"  said  the 
other,  with  a  snap,  "  that  I  don't  like  Mr.  Evan 
Maclan?" 

Somewhat  to  the  speaker's  surprise  this  did  not 
inflame  the  sensitive  sceptic;  he  had  the  air  of 
thinking  thoroughly,  and  then  he  said :  "  No,  J 
don't  think  it's  my  friend  Maclan  that  taught  me 
that.  I  think  I  should  always  have  said  that  I 
don't  like  this.     These  people  have  rights." 

"  Rights !  "  repeated  the  unknown  in  a  tone 
quite  indescribable.  Then  he  added  with  a  more 
open  sneer :  "  Perhaps  they  also  have  souls." 

"  They  have  lives !  "  said  Turnbull,  sternly ; 
"  that  is  quite  enough  for  me.  I  understood  you 
to  say  that  you  thought  life  sacred." 

"  Yes,  indeed !  "  cried  his  mentor  with  a  sort 
of  idealistic  animation.  "  Yes,  indeed !  Life  is 
sacred — but  lives  are  not  sacred.  We  are  improv- 


THE    DREAM    OF    TURNBULL     321 

ing  Life  by  removing  lives.  Can  you,  as  a  free- 
thinker, find  any  fault  in  that?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Turnbull  with  brevity. 

"  Yet  you  applaud  tyrannicide,"  said  the  stran- 
ger with  rationalistic  gaiety.  "  How  inconsistent ! 
It  really  comes  to  this :  You  approve  of  taking 
away  life  from  those  to  whom  it  is  a  triumph  and 
a  pleasure.  But  you  will  not  take  away  life  from 
those  to  whom  it  is  a  burden  and  a  toil." 

Turnbull  rose  to  his  feet  in  the  car  with  con- 
siderable deliberation,  but  his  face  seemed  oddly 
pale.     The  other  went  on  with  enthusiasm. 

"Life,  yes,  Life  is  indeed  sacred!"  he  cried; 
"  but  new  lives  for  old !  Good  lives  for  bad !  On 
that  very  place  where  now  there  sprawls  one 
drunken  wastrel  of  a  pavement  artist  more  or  less 
wishing  he  were  dead — on  that  very  spot  there 
shall  in  the  future  be  living  pictures;  there  shall 
be  golden  girls  and  boys  leaping  in  the  sun." 

Turnbull,  still  standing  up,  opened  his  lips, 
**  Will  you  put  me  down,  please  ?  "  he  said,  quite 
calmly,  like  one  stopping  an  omnibus. 

"  Put  you  down — what  do  you  mean?  "  cried 
his  leader.  "  I  am  taking  you  to  the  front  of  the 
revolutionary  war,  where  you  will  be  one  of  the 
first  of  the  revolutionary  leaders." 


322    THE    BALL   AND    THE    CROSS 

"  Thank  you,"  replied  Turnbull  with  the  same 
painful  constraint.  "  I  have  heard  about  your 
revolutionary  war,  and  I  think  on  the  whole  that 
I  would  rather  be  anywhere  else." 

"  Do  you  want  to  be  taken  to  a  monastery," 
snarled  the  other,  "  with  Maclan  and  his  wink- 
ing Madonnas  ?  " 

"  I  want  to  be  taken  to  a  madhouse,"  said 
Turnbull  distinctly,  giving  the  direction  with  a 
sort  of  precision.  *'  I  want  to  go  back  to  exactly 
the  same  lunatic  asylum  from  which  I  came." 

"  Why?  "  asked  the  unknown. 

"  Because  I  want  a  little  sane  and  wholesome 
society,"  answered  Turnbull. 

There  was  a  long  and  peculiar  silence,  and 
then  the  man  driving  the  flying  machine  said 
quite  coolly :  "  I  won't  take  you  back." 

And  then  Turnbull  said  equally  coolly :  "  Then 
I'll  jump  out  of  the  car." 

The  unknown  rose  to  his  full  height,  and  the 
expression  in  his  eyes  seemed  to  be  made  of 
ironies  behind  ironies,  as  two  mirrors  infinitely 
reflect  each  other.  At  last  he  said,  very  gravely : 
"  Do  you  think  I  am  the  devil  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Turnbull,  violently.  "  For  I  think 
the  devil  is  a  dream,  and  so  are  you.    I  don't  be- 


THE   DREAM    OF    TURNBULL     323 

lieve  in  you  or  your  flying  ship  or  your  last  fight 
of  the  world.  It  is  all  a  nightmare.  I  say  as  a 
fact  of  dogma  and  faith  that  it  is  all  a  night- 
mare. And  I  will  be  a  martyr  for  my  faith  as 
much  as  St.  Catherine,  for  I  will  jump  out  of  this 
ship  and  risk  waking  up  safe  in  bed." 

After  swaying  twice  with  the  swaying  vessel  he 
dived  over  the  side  as  one  dives  into  the  sea.  For 
some  incredible  moments  stars  and  space  and 
planets  seemed  to  shoot  up  past  him  as  the  sparks 
fly  upward ;  and  yet  in  that  sickening  descent  he 
was  full  of  some  unnatural  happiness.  He  could 
connect  it  with  no  idea  except  one  that  half  es- 
caped him — what  Evan  had  said  of  the  difference 
between  Christ  and  Satan ;  that  it  was  by  Christ's 
own  choice  that  He  descended  into  hell. 

When  he  again  realised  anything,  he  was  lying 
on  his  elbow  on  the  lawn  of  the  lunatic  asylum, 
and  the  last  red  of  the  sunset  had  not  yet  disap- 
peared. 


CHAPTER    XVII 


THE   IDIOT 


Evan  MacIan  was  standing  a  few  yards  off 
looking  at  him  in  absolute  silence. 

He  had  not  the  moral  courage  to  ask  MacIan  if 
there  had  been  anything  astounding  in  the  man- 
ner of  his  coming  there,  nor  did  MacIan  seem  to 
have  any  question  to  ask,  or  perhaps  any  need  to 
ask  it.  The  two  men  came  slowly  toward  each 
other,  and  found  the  same  expression  on  each  oth- 
er's faces.  Then,  for  the  first  time  in  all  their  ac- 
quaintance, they  shook  hands. 

Almost  as  if  this  were  a  kind  of  unconscious 
signal,  it  brought  Dr.  Quayle  bounding  out  of  a 
door  and  running  across  the  lawn. 

"  Oh,  there  you  are !  "  he  exclaimed  with  a  re- 
lieved giggle,  "  Will  you  come  inside,  please  ?  I 
want  to  speak  to  you  both." 

They  followed  him  into  his  shiny  wooden  office 
where  their  damning  record  was  kept.  Dr. 
Quayle  sat  down  on  a  swivel  chair  and  swung 
324 


THE    IDIOT  325 

round  to  face  them.  His  carved  smile  had  sud- 
denly disappeared. 

"  I  will  be  plain  with  you  gentlemen,"  he  said, 
abruptly ;  "  )'0u  know  quite  well  we  do  our  best 
for  everybody  here.  Your  cases  have  been  under 
special  consideration,  and  the  Master  himself  has 
decided  that  you  ought  to  be  treated  specially  and 
er — under  somewhat  simpler  conditions." 

"  You  mean  treated  worse,  I  suppose,"  said 
Turnbull,  gruffly. 

The  doctor  did  not  reply,  and  Maclan  said :"  1 
expected  this."    His  eyes  had  begun  to  glow. 

The  doctor  answered,  looking  at  his  desk  and 
playing  with  a  key :  "  Well,  in  certain  cases  that 
give  anxiety — it  is  often  better " 

"  Give  anxiety,"  said  Turnbull,  fiercely.  "  Con- 
found your  impudence!  What  do  you  mean? 
You  imprison  two  perfectly  sane  men  in  a  mad- 
house because  you  have  made  up  a  long  word. 
They  take  it  in  good  temper,  walk  and  talk  in 
your  garden  like  monks  who  have  found  a  voca- 
tion, are  civil  even  to  you,  you  damned  druggists' 
hack !  Behave  not  only  more  sanely  than  any  of 
your  patients,  but  more  sanely  than  half  the  sane 
men  outside,  and  you  have  the  soul-stifling  cheek 
to  say  that  they  give  anxiety." 


326    THE    BALL   AND    THE    CROSS 

"  The  head  of  the  asylum  has  settled  it  all," 
said  Dr.  Quayle,  still  looking  down. 

Maclan  took  one  of  his  immense  strides  for- 
ward and  stood  over  the  doctor  with  flaming 
eyes. 

"  If  the  head  has  settled  it  let  the  head  an- 
nounce it,"  he  said.  "  I  won't  take  it  from  you. 
I  believe  you  to  be  a  low,  gibbering  degenerate. 
Let  us  see  the  head  of  the  asylum." 

"See  the  head  of  the  asylum,"  repeated  Dr. 
Quayle.     "  Certainly  not." 

The  tall  Highlander,  bending  over  him,  put  one 
hand  on  his  shoulder  with  fatherly  interest. 

"  You  don't  seem  to  appreciate  the  peculiar  ad- 
vantages of  my  position  as  a  lunatic,"  he  said. 
"  I  could  kill  you  with  my  left  hand  before  such  a 
rat  as  you  could  so  much  as  squeak.  And  I 
wouldn't  be  hanged  for  it." 

"  I  certainly  agree  with  Mr.  Maclan,"  said 
Turnbull  with  sobriety  and  perfect  respectful- 
ness, "  that  you  had  better  let  us  see  the  head  of 
the  institution." 

Dr.  Quayle  got  to  his  feet  in  a  mixture  of  sud- 
den hysteria  and  clumsy  presence  of  mind. 

"  Oh,  certainly,"  he  said  with  a  weak  laugh. 
"  Vou  can  see  the  head  of  the  asylum  if  you  par- 


THE    IDIOT  327 

ticularly  want  to."  He  almost  ran  out  of  the 
room,  and  the  two  followed  swiftly  on  his  flying 
coat  tails.  He  knocked  at  an  ordinary  varnished 
door  in  the  corridor.  When  a  voice  said,  "  Come 
in,"  Maclan's  breath  went  hissing  back  through 
his  teeth  into  his  chest.  Turnbull  was  more  im- 
petuous, and  opened  the  door. 

It  was  a  neat  and  well-appointed  room  entirely 
lined  with  a  medical  library.  At  the  other  end  of 
it  was  a  ponderous  and  polished  desk  with  an  in- 
candescent lamp  on  it,  the  light  of  which  was  just 
sufficient  to  show  a  slender,  well-bred  figure  in  an 
ordinary  medical  black  frock-coat,  whose  head, 
quite  silvered  with  age,  was  bent  over  neat  piles 
of  notes.  This  gentleman  looked  up  for  an  in- 
stant as  they  entered,  and  the  lamplight  fell  on 
his  glittering  spectacles  and  long,  clean-shaven 
face — a  face  which  would  have  been  simply  like 
an  aristocrat's  but  that  a  certain  lion  poise  of  the 
head  and  long  cleft  in  the  chin  made  it  look  more 
like  a  very  handsome  actor's.  It  was  only  for  a 
flash  that  his  face  was  thus  lifted.  Then  he  bent 
his  silver  head  over  his  notes  once  more,  and  said, 
without  looking  up  again  : 

"  I  told  you,  Dr.  Quayle,  that  these  men  were 
to  go  to  cells  B  and  C." 


328     THE    BALL    AND    THE    CROSS 

Turnbull  and  Maclan  looked  at  each  other,  and 
said  more  than  they  could  ever  say  with  tongues 
or  swords.  Among  other  things  they  said  that  to 
that  particular  Head  of  the  institution  it  was 
waste  of  time  to  appeal,  and  they  followed  Dr. 
Quayle  out  of  the  room. 

The  instant  they  stepped  out  into  the  corridor 
four  sturdy  figures  stepped  from  four  sides,  pin- 
ioned them,  and  ran  them  along  the  galleries. 
They  might  very  likely  have  thrown  their  captors 
right  and  left  had  they  been  inclined  to  resist,  but 
for  some  nameless  reason  they  were  more  inclined 
to  laugh.  A  mixture  of  mad  irony  with  childish 
curiosity  made  them  feel  quite  inclined  to  see 
what  next  twist  would  be  taken  by  their  imbecile 
luck.  They  were  dragged  down  countless  cold 
avenues  lined  with  glazed  tiles,  different  only  in 
being  of  different  lengths  and  set  at  different 
angles.  They  were  so  many  and  so  monotonous 
that  to  escape  back  by  them  would  have  been  far 
harder  than  fleeing  from  the  Hampton  Court 
maze.  Only  the  fact  that  windows  grew  fewer, 
coming  at  longer  intervals,  and  the  fact  that  when 
the  windows  did  come  they  seemed  shadowed  and 
let  in  less  light,  showed  that  they  were  winding 
into  the  core  or  belly  of  some  enormous  building. 


THE    IDIOT  329 

After  a  little  time  the  glazed  corridors  began  to 
be  lit  by  electricity. 

At  last,  when  they  had  walked  nearly  a  mile  in 
those  white  and  polished  tunnels,  they  came  with 
quite  a  shock  to  the  futile  finality  of  a  cul-de-sac. 
All  that  white  and  weary  journey  ended  suddenly 
in  an  oblong  space  and  a  blank  white  wall.  But 
in  the  white  wall  there  were  two  iron  doors 
painted  white  on  which  were  written,  respectively, 
in  neat  black  capitals  B  and  C. 

"  You  go  in  here,  sir,"  said  the  leader  of  the 
officials,  quite  respectfully,  **  and  you  in  here." 

But  before  the  doors  had  clanged  upon  their 
dazed  victims,  Maclan  had  been  able  to  say  to 
Turnbull  with  a  strange  drawl  of  significance: 
"  I  wonder  who  A  is." 

Turnbull  made  an  automatic  struggle  before  he 
allowed  himself  to  be  thrown  into  the  cell.  Hence 
it  happened  that  he  was  the  last  to  enter,  and  was 
still  full  of  the  exhilaration  of  the  adventures  for 
at  least  five  minutes  after  the  echo  of  the  clang- 
ing door  had  died  away. 

Then,  when  silence  had  sunk  deep  and  nothing 
happened  for  two  and  a  half  hours,  it  suddenly 
occurred  to  him  that  this  was  the  end  of  his  life. 
He  was  hidden  and  sealed  up  in  this  little  crack 


330    THE    BALL   AND    THE    CROSS 

of  stone  until  the  flesh  should  fall  off  his  bones. 
He  was  dead,  and  the  world  had  won. 

His  cell  was  of  an  oblong  shape,  but  very  long 
in  comparison  with  its  width.  It  was  just  wide 
enough  to  permit  the  arms  to  be  fully  extended 
with  the  dumb-bells,  which  were  hung  up  on  the 
left  wall,  very  dusty.  It  was,  however,  long 
enough  for  a  man  to  walk  one  thirty-fifth  part  of 
a  mile  if  he  traversed  it  entirely.  On  the  same 
principle  a  row  of  fixed  holes,  quite  close  to- 
gedier,  let  in  to  the  cells  by  pipes  what  was  al- 
leged to  be  the  freshest  air.  For  these  great  sci- 
entific organisers  insisted  that  a  man  should  be 
healthy  even  if  he  was  miserable.  They  provided 
a  walk  long  enough  to  give  him  exercise  and  holes 
large  enough  to  give  him  oxygen.  There  their 
interest  in  human  nature  suddenly  ceased.  It 
seemed  never  to  have  occurred  to  them  that  the 
benefit  of  exercise  belongs  partly  to  the  benefit  of 
liberty.  They  had  not  entertained  the  suggestion 
that  the  open  air  is  only  one  of  the  advantages  of 
the  open  sky.  They  administered  air  in  secret, 
but  in  sufficient  doses,  as  if  it  were  a  medicine. 
They  suggested  walking,  as  if  no  man  had  ever 
felt  inclined  to  walk.  Above  all,  the  asylum  au- 
thorities  insisted   on    their   own    extraordinary 


THE    IDIOT  331 

cleanliness.  Every  morning,  while  Turnbull  was 
still  half  asleep  on  his  iron  bedstead  which  was 
lifted  half-way  up  the  wall  and  clamped  to  it  with 
iron,  four  sluices  or  metal  mouths  opened  above 
him  at  the  four  corners  of  the  chamber  and 
washed  it  white  of  any  defilement,  Turnbull's 
solitary  soul  surged  up  against  this  sickening  daily 
solemnity. 

"  I  am  buried  alive !  "  he  cried,  bitterly ;  "  they 
have  hidden  me  under  mountains.  I  shall  be  here 
till  I  rot.  Why  the  blazes  should  it  matter  to 
them  whether  I  am  dirty  or  clean." 

Every  morning  and  evening  an  iron  hatchway 
opened  in  his  oblong  cell,  and  a  brown  hairy  hand 
or  two  thrust  in  a  plate  of  perfectly  cooked  lentils 
and  a  big  bowl  of  cocoa.  He  was  not  underfed 
any  more  than  he  was  underexercised  or  asphyx- 
iated. He  had  ample  walking  space,  ample  air, 
ample  and  even  filling  food.  The  only  objection 
was  that  he  had  nothing  to  walk  toward,  nothing 
to  feast  about,  and  no  reason  whatever  for  draw- 
ing the  breath  of  life. 

Even  the  shape  of  his  cell  especially  irritated 
him.  It  was  a  long,  narrow  parallelogram,  which 
had  a  flat  wall  at  one  end  and  ought  to  have  had 
a  flat  wall  at  the  other ;  but  that  end  was  broken 


332    THE    BALL  AND    THE    CROSS 

by  a  wedge  or  angle  of  space,  like  the  prow  of  a 
ship.  After  three  days  of  silence  and  cocoa,  this 
angle  at  the  end  began  to  infuriate  Turnbull.  It 
maddened  him  to  think  that  two  lines  came  to- 
gether and  pointed  at  nothing.  After  the  fifth 
day  he  was  reckless,  and  poked  his  head  into  the 
corner.  After  twenty-five  days  he  almost  broke 
his  head  against  it.  Then  he  became  quite  cool 
and  stupid  again,  and  began  to  examine  it  like  a 
sort  of  Robinson  Crusoe. 

Almost  unconsciously  it  was  his  instinct  to  ex- 
amine outlets,  and  he  found  himself  paying  par- 
ticular attention  to  the  row  of  holes  which  let  in 
the  air  into  his  last  house  of  life.  He  soon  dis- 
covered that  these  air-holes  were  all  the  ends  and 
mouths  of  long  leaden  tubes  which  doubtless  car- 
ried air  from  some  remote  watering-place  near 
Margate.  One  evening  while  he  was  engaged  in 
the  fifth  investigation  he  noticed  something  like 
twilight  in  one  of  these  dumb  mouths,  as  com- 
pared with  the  darkness  of  the  others.  Thrusting 
his  finger  in  as  far  as  it  would  go,  he  found  a 
hole  and  flapping  edge  in  the  tube.  This  he  rent 
open  and  instantly  saw  a  light  behind ;  it  was  at 
least  certain  that  he  had  struck  some  other  cell. 

It  is  a  characteristic  of  all  things  now  called 


THE    IDIOT  333 

"  efficient,"  which  means  mechanical  and  calcu- 
lated, that  if  they  go  wrong  at  all  they  go  entirely 
wrong.  There  is  no  power  of  retrieving  a  defeat, 
as  in  simpler  and  more  living  organisms.  A 
strong  gun  can  conquer  a  strong  elephant,  but  a 
wounded  elephant  can  easily  conquer  a  broken 
gun.  Thus  the  Prussian  monarchy  in  the  eigh- 
teenth century,  or  now,  can  make  a  strong  army 
merely  by  making  the  men  afraid.  But  it  does  it 
with  the  permanent  possibility  that  the  men  may 
some  day  be  more  afraid  of  their  enemies  than  of 
their  officers.  Thus  the  drainage  in  our  cities  so 
long  as  it  is  quite  solid  means  a  general  safety, 
but  if  there  is  one  leak  it  means  concentrated 
poison — an  explosion  of  deathly  germs  like  dyna- 
mite, a  spirit  of  stink.  Thus,  indeed,  all  that  ex- 
cellent machinery  which  is  the  swiftest  thing  on 
earth  in  saving  human  labour  is  also  the  slowest 
thing  on  earth  in  resisting  human  interference. 
It  may  be  easier  to  get  chocolate  for  nothing  out 
of  a  shopkeeper  than  out  an  automatic  machine. 
But  if  you  did  manage  to  steal  the  chocolate,  the 
automatic  machine  would  be  much  less  likely  to 
run  after  you. 

TurnbuU  was  not  long  in  discovering  this  truth 
in  connection  with  the  cold  and  colossal  machin- 


334    THE    BALL   AND    THE    CROSS 

ery  of  this  great  asylum.  He  had  been  shaken  by 
many  spiritual  states  since  the  instant  when  he 
was  pitched  head  foremost  into  that  private  cell 
which  was  to  be  his  private  room  till  death.  He 
had  felt  a  high  fit  of  pride  and  poetry,  which 
had  ebbed  away  and  left  him  deadly  cold.  He 
had  known  a  period  of  mere  scientific  curiosity, 
in  the  course  of  which  he  examined  all  the  tiles  of 
his  cell,  with  the  gratifying  conclusion  that  they 
were  all  the  same  shape  and  size ;  but  was  greatly 
puzzled  about  the  angle  in  the  wall  at  the  end,  and 
also  about  an  iron  peg  or  spike  that  stood  out 
from  the  wall,  the  object  of  which  he  does  not 
know  to  this  day.  Then  he  had  a  period  of  mere 
madness  not  to  be  written  of  by  decent  men,  but 
only  by  those  few  dirty  novelists  hallooed  on  by 
the  infernal  huntsman  to  hunt  down  and  humiliate 
human  nature.  This  also  passed,  but  left  behind 
it  a  feverish  distaste  for  many  of  the  mere  objects 
around  him.  Long  after  he  had  returned  to  san- 
ity and  such  hopeless  cheerfulness  as  a  man  might 
have  on  a  desert  island,  he  disliked  the  regular 
squares  of  the  pattern  of  wall  and  floor  and  the 
triangle  that  terminated  his  corridor.  Above  all, 
he  had  a  hatred,  deep  as  the  hell  he  did  not  be- 
lieve in,  for  the  objectless  iron  peg  in  the  wall. 


THE    IDIOT  335 

But  in  all  his  moods,  sane  or  insane,  intolerant 
or  stoical,  he  never  really  doubted  this:  that  the 
machine  held  him  as  light  and  as  hopelessly  as  he 
had  from  his  birth  been  held  by  the  hopeless  cos- 
mos of  his  own  creed.  He  knew  well  the  ruthless 
and  inexhaustible  resources  of  our  scientific  civ- 
ilisation. He  no  more  expected  rescue  from  a 
medical  certificate  than  rescue  from  the  solar  sys- 
tem. In  many  of  his  Robinson  Crusoe  moods  he 
thought  kindly  of  Maclan  as  of  some  quarrelsome 
school-fellow  who  had  long  been  dead.  He 
thought  of  leaving  in  the  cell  when  he  died  a  rigid 
record  of  his  opinions,  and  when  he  began  to 
write  them  down  on  scraps  of  envelope  in  his 
pocket,  he  was  startled  to  discover  how  much  they 
had  changed.  Then  he  remembered  the  Beau- 
champ  Tower,  and  tried  to  write  his  blazing  scep- 
ticism on  the  wall,  and  discovered  that  it  was  all 
shiny  tiles  on  which  nothing  could  be  either  drawn 
or  carved.  Then  for  an  instant  there  hung  and 
broke  above  him  like  a  high  wave  the  whole  hor- 
ror of  scientific  imprisonment,  which  manages  to 
deny  a  man  not  only  liberty,  but  every  accidental 
comfort  of  bondage.  In  the  old  filthy  dungeons 
men  could  car^^e  their  prayers  or  protests  in  the 
rock.    Here  the  white  and  slippery  walls  escaped 


336    THE    BALL   AND    THE    CROSS 

even  from  bearing  witness.  The  old  prisoners 
could  make  a  pet  of  a  mouse  or  a  beetle  strayed 
out  of  a  hole.  Here  the  unpierceable  walls  were 
washed  every  morning  by  an  automatic  sluice. 
There  was  no  natural  corruption  and  no  merciful 
decay  by  which  a  living  thing  could  enter  in. 
Then  James  Turnbull  looked  up  and  saw  the  high 
invincible  hatefulness  of  the  society  in  which  he 
lived,  and  saw  the  hatefulness  of  something  else 
also,  which  he  told  himself  again  and  again  was 
not  the  cosmos  in  which  he  believed.  But  all  the 
time  he  had  never  once  doubted  that  the  five  sides 
of  his  cell  were  for  him  the  wall  of  the  world 
henceforward,  and  it  gave  him  a  shock  of  sur- 
prise even  to  discover  the  faint  light  through  the 
aperture  in  the  ventilation  tube.  But  he  had  for- 
gotten how  close  efficiency  has  to  pack  everything 
together  and  how  easily,  therefore,  a  pipe  here  or 
there  may  leak. 

Turnbull  thrust  his  first  finger  down  the  aper- 
ture, and  at  last  managed  to  make  a  slight  further 
fissure  in  the  piping.  The  light  that  came  from 
beyond  was  very  faint,  and  apparently  indirect ;  it 
seemed  to  fall  from  some  hole  or  window  higher 
up.  As  he  was  screwing  his  eye  to  peer  at  this 
gray  and  greasy  tvviUght  he  was  astonished  to  see 


THE  Idiot  337 

another  human  finger  very  long  and  lean  come 
down  from  above  toward  the  broken  pipe  and  hook 
it  up  to  something  higher.  The  lighted  aperture 
was  abruptly  blackened  and  blocked,  presum- 
ably by  a  face  and  mouth,  for  something  human 
spoke  down  the  tube,  though  the  words  were  not 
clear. 

"Who  is  that?"  asked  Turnbull,  trembling 
with  excitement,  yet  wary  and  quite  resolved  not 
to  spoil  any  chance. 

After  a  few  indistinct  sounds  the  voice  came 
down  with  a  strong  Argyleshire  accent : 

"  I  say,  Turnbull,  we  couldn't  fight  through 
this  tube,  could  we  ?  " 

Sentiments  beyond  speech  surged  up  in  Turn- 
bull  and  silenced  him  for  a  space  just  long  enough 
to  be  painful.  Then  he  said  with  his  old  gaiety : 
"  I  vote  we  talk  a  little  first ;  I  don't  want  to  mur- 
der the  first  man  I  have  met  for  ten  million 
years." 

"  I  know  w4iat  you  mean,"  answered  the  other. 
"  It  has  been  awful.  For  a  mortal  month  I  have 
been  alone  with  God." 

Turnbull  started,  and  it  was  on  the  tip  of  his 
tongue  to  answer :  "  Alone  with  God !  Then  you 
do  not  know  what  loneliness  is." 


33^    THE   BALL   AND    THE    CROSS 

But  he  answered,  after  all,  in  his  old  defiant 
style :  "  Alone  with  God,  were  you  ?  And  I  sup- 
pose you  found  his  Majesty's  society  rather  mo- 
notonous ? " 

"  Oh,  no,"  said  Maclan,  and  his  voice  shud- 
dered ;  "  it  was  a  great  deal  too  exciting." 

After  a  very  long  silence  the  voice  of  Maclan 
said :  "  What  do  you  really  hate  most  in  your 
place?" 

"  You'd  think  I  was  really  mad  if  I  told  you," 
answered  Turnbull,  bitterly. 

"  Then  I  expect  it's  the  same  as  mine,"  said  the 
other  voice. 

"  I  am  sure  it's  not  the  same  as  anybody's,"  said 
Turnbull,  "  for  it  has  no  rhyme  or  reason.  Per- 
haps my  brain  really  has  gone,  but  I  detest  that 
iron  spike  in  the  left  wall  more  than  the  damned 
desolation  or  the  damned  cocoa.  Have  you  got 
one  in  your  cell  ?  " 

"  Not  now,"  replied  Maclan  with  serenity. 
"  I've  pulled  it  out." 

His  fellow-prisoner  could  only  repeat  the 
words. 

"  I  pulled  it  out  the  other  day  when  I  was  off 
my  head,"  continued  the  tranquil  Highland  voice. 
"  It  looked  so  unnecessary." 


THE    IDIOT  339 

"  You  must  be  ghastly  strong,"  said  Turnbull. 

"  One  is,  when  one  is  mad,"  was  the  careless 
reply,  "  and  it  had  worn  a  little  loose  in  the 
socket.  Even  now  I've  got  it  out  I  can't  discover 
what  it  was  for.  But  I've  found  out  something 
a  long  sight  funnier." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  asked  Turnbull. 

"  I  have  found  out  where  A  is,"  said  the  other. 

Three  weeks  afterward  Maclan  had  managed 
to  open  up  communications  which  made  his  mean- 
ing plain.  By  that  time  the  two  captives  had 
fully  discovered  and  demonstrated  that  weakness 
in  the  very  nature  of  modern  machinery  to  which 
we  have  already  referred.  The  very  fact  that  they 
were  isolated  from  all  companions  meant  that 
they  were  free  from  all  spies,  and  as  there  were 
'no  gaolers  to  be  bribed,  so  there  were  none  to  be 
baffled.  Machinery  brought  them  their  cocoa  and 
cleaned  their  cells ;  that  machinery  was  as  helpless 
as  it  was  pitiless.  A  little  patient  violence,  con- 
ducted day  after  day  amid  constant  mutual  sug- 
gestion, opened  an  irregular  hole  in  the  wall, 
large  enough  to  let  in  a  small  man,  in  the  exact 
place  where  there  had  been  before  the  tiny  ven- 
tilation holes.  Turnbull  tumbled  somehow  into 
Maclan's  apartment,  and  his  first  glance  found 


340    THE    BALL   AND    THE    CROSS 

out  that  the  iron  spike  was  indeed  plucked  from 
its  socket,  and  left,  moreover,  another  ragged  hole 
into  some  hollow  place  behind.  But  for  this 
Maclan's  cell  was  the  duplicate  of  Turnbull's — 
a  long  oblong  ending  in  a  wedge  and  lined  with 
cold  and  lustrous  tiles.  The  small  hole  from 
which  the  peg  had  been  displaced  was  in  that 
short  oblique  wall  at  the  end  nearest  to  Turn- 
bulFs.  That  individual  looked  at  it  with  a  puz- 
zled face. 

"  What  is  in  there?  "  he  asked. 

Maclan  answered  briefly :  *'  Another  cell." 

"But  where  can  the  door  of  it  be?"  said  his 
companion,  even  more  puzzled ;  "  the  doors  of  our 
cells  are  at  the  other  end." 

"  It  has  no  door,"  said  Evan. 

In  the  pause  of  perplexity  that  followed,  an 
eerie  and  sinister  feeling  crept  over  Turnbull's 
stubborn  soul  in  spite  of  himself.  The  notion  of 
the  doorless  room  chilled  him  with  that  sense  of 
half-witted  curiosity  which  one  has  when  some- 
thing horrible  is  half  understood. 

"  James  Turnbull,"  said  Maclan,  in  a  low  and 
shaken  voice,  "  these  people  hate  us  more  than 
Nero  hated  Christians,  and  fear  us  more  than  any 
man  feared  Nero.    They  have  filled  England  with 


THE    IDIOT  341 

frenzy  and  galloping  in  order  to  capture  us  and 
wipe  us  out — in  order  to  kill  us.  And  they  have 
killed  us,  for  you  and  I  have  only  made  a  hole  in 
our  coffins.  But  though  this  hatred  that  they  felt 
for  us  is  bigger  than  they  felt  for  Bonaparte,  and 
more  plain  and  practical  than  they  would  feel  for 
Jack  the  Ripper,  yet  it  is  not  we  whom  the  people 
of  this  place  hate  most." 

A  cold  and  quivering  impatience  continued  to 
crawl  up  Turnbull's  spine;  he  had  never  felt  so 
near  to  superstition  and  supernaturalism,  and  it 
was  not  a  pretty  sort  of  superstition  either. 

"  There  is  another  man  more  fearful  and  hate- 
ful," went  on  Maclan,  in  his  low  monotone  voice, 
"  and  they  have  buried  him  even  deeper.  God 
knows  how  they  did  it,  for  he  was  let  in  by  nei- 
ther door  nor  window,  nor  lowered  through  any 
opening  above.  I  expect  these  iron  handles  that 
we  both  hate  have  been  part  of  some  damned  ma- 
chinery for  walling  him  up.  He  is  there.  I  have 
looked  through  the  hole  at  him;  but  I  cannot 
stand  looking  at  him  long,  because  his  face  is 
turned  away  from  me  and  he  does  not  move." 

All  Turnbull's  unnatural  and  uncompleted  feel- 
ings found  their  outlet  in  rushing  to  the  aperture 
and  looking  into  the  unknown  room. 


3-42    THE    BALL   AND    THE    CROSS 

It  was  a  third  oblong  cell  exactly  like  the  other 
two  except  that  it  was  doorless,  and  except  that 
on  one  of  the  walls  was  painted  a  large  black  A 
like  the  B  and  C  outside  their  own  doors.  The 
letter  in  this  case  was  not  painted  outside,  be- 
cause this  prison  had  no  outside. 

On  the  same  kind  of  tiled  floor,  of  which  the 
monotonous  squares  had  maddened  Turnbull's 
eye  and  brain,  was  sitting  a  figure  which  was 
startlingly  short  even  for  the  sitting  posture.  In- 
deed, it  had  something  of  the  look  of  a  child, 
only  that  the  enormous  head  was  ringed  with 
hair  of  a  frosty  gray.  The  figure  was  draped, 
both  insecurely  and  insufficiently,  in  what 
looked  like  the  remains  of  a  brown  flannel 
dressing-gown;  an  emptied  cup  of  cocoa  stood 
on  the  floor  beside  it,  and  the  creature  had  his 
big  gray  head  cocked  at  a  particular  angle  of 
inquiry  or  attention  which  amid  all  that  gather- 
ing gloom  and  mystery  struck  one  as  comic  if  not 
cocksure. 

After  six  still  seconds  Turnbull  could  stand  it 
no  longer,  but  called  out  to  the  dwarfish  thing — 
in  what  words  heaven  knows.  The  thing  got  up 
with  the  promptitude  of  an  animal,  and  turning 
round  offered  the  spectacle  of  two  owlish  eyes 


THE    IDIOT  343 

and  a  huge  gray-and-white  beard  not  unlike  the 
plumage  of  an  owl.  This  extraordinary  beard 
covered  him  literally  to  his  feet  (not  that  that  was 
very  far),  and  perhaps  it  was  as  well  that  it  did, 
for  portions  of  his  remaining  clothing  seemed  to 
fall  o£f  whenever  he  moved.  One  talks  trivially 
of  a  face  like  parchment,  but  this  old  man's  face 
was  so  wrinkled  that  it  was  like  a  parchment 
loaded  with  hieroglyphics.  The  lines  of  his  face 
were  so  deep  and  complex  that  one  could  see  five 
or  ten  different  faces  besides  the  real  one,  as  one 
can  see  them  in  an  elaborate  wall-paper.  And  yet 
while  his  face  seemed  like  a  scripture  older  than 
the  gods,  his  eyes  were  quite  bright,  blue,  and 
startled  like  those  of  a  baby.  They  looked  as  if 
they  had  only  an  instant  before  been  fitted  into  his 
head. 

Everything  depended  so  obviously  upon  wheth- 
er this  buried  monster  spoke  that  Tumbull  did  not 
know  or  care  whether  he  himself  had  spoken.  He 
said  something  or  nothing.  And  then  he  waited 
for  this  dwarfish  voice  that  had  been  hidden 
under  the  mountains  of  the  world.  At  last  it  did 
speak,  and  spoke  in  English,  with  a  foreign  ac- 
cent that  was  neither  Latin  nor  Teutonic.  He 
suddenly  stretched  out   a  long  and   very  dirty 


344     THE    BALL   AND    THE    CROSS 

forefinger,  and  cried  in  a  voice  of  clear  recogni- 
tion, lil<e  a  child's :  "  That's  a  hole." 

He  digested  the  discovery  for  some  seconds, 
sucking  his  finger,  and  then  he  cried,  with  a  crow 
of  laughter :  "And  that's  a  head  come  through  it." 

The  hilarious  energy  in  this  idiot  attitude  gave 
Turnbull  another  sick  turn.  He  had  grown  to 
tolerate  those  dreary  and  mumbling  madmen  who 
trailed  themselves  about  the  beautiful  asylum  gar- 
dens. But  there  was  something  new  and  sub- 
versive of  the  universe  in  the  combination  of  so 
much  cheerful  decision  with  a  body  without  a 
brain. 

"  Why  did  they  put  you  in  such  a  place?  "  he 
asked  at  last  with  embarrassment. 

"  Good  place.  Yes,"  said  the  old  man,  nodding 
a  great  many  times  and  beaming  like  a  flattered 
landlord.  "  Good  shape.  Long  and  narrow,  with 
a  point.  Like  this,"  and  he  made  lovingly  with 
his  hands  a  map  of  the  room  in  the  air. 

"  But  that's  not  the  best,"  he  added,  confiden- 
tially. "  Squares  very  good ;  I  have  a  nice  long 
holiday,  and  can  count  them.  But  that  not  the 
best." 

"  What  is  the  best  ?  "  asked  Turnbull  in  great 
distress. 


THE    IDIOT  345 

"  Spike  is  the  best,"  said  the  old  man,  opening 
his  blue  eyes  blazing;  "  it  sticks  out." 

The  words  Turnbull  spoke  broke  out  of  him  in 
pure  pity.  "  Can't  we  do  anything  for  you  ?  "  he 
said. 

"  I  am  very  happy,"  said  the  other,  alpha- 
betically. '*  You  are  a  good  man.  Can  I  help 
you?" 

"  No,  I  don't  think  you  can,  sir,"  said  Turnbull 
with  rough  pathos;  "  I  am  glad  you  are  contented 
at  least." 

The  weird  old  person  opened  his  broad  blue 
eyes  and  fixed  Turnbull  with  a  stare  extraor- 
dinarily severe.  "  You  are  quite  sure,"  he  said, 
"  I  cannot  help  you?  " 

"  Quite  sure,  thank  you,"  said  Turnbull  with 
broken  brevity.     "  Good-day." 

Then  he  turned  to  Maclan  who  was  standing 
close  behind  him,  and  whose  face,  now  familiar  in 
all  its  moods,  told  him  easily  that  Evan  had  heard 
the  whole  of  the  strange  dialogue. 

"  Curse  those  cruel  beasts ! "  cried  Turnbull. 
"  They've  turned  him  to  an  imbecile  just  by  bury- 
ing him  alive.    His  brain's  like  a  pin-point  now." 

"You  are  sure  he  is  a  lunatic?"  said  Evan, 
slowly. 


346    THE    BALL   AND    THE    CROSS 

"  Not  a  lunatic,"  said  Turnbull,  "  an  idiot. 
He  just  points  to  things  and  says  that  they  stick 
out." 

"  He  had  a  notion  that  he  could  help  us,"  said 
Maclan,  moodily,  and  began  to  pace  toward  the 
other  end  of  his  cell. 

"  Yes,  it  was  a  bit  pathetic,"  assented  Turnbull ; 
"  such  a  Thing  offering  help,  and  besides — 
Hallo !  Hallo !    What's  the  matter  ?  " 

"  God  Almighty  guide  us  all !  "  said  Maclan. 

He  was  standing  heavy  and  still  at  the  other 
end  of  the  room  and  staring  quietly  at  the  door 
which  for  thirty  days  had  sealed  them  up  from 
the  sun.  Turnbull,  following  the  other's  eye, 
stared  at  the  door  likewise,  and  then  he  also  ut- 
tered an  exclamation.  The  iron  door  was  stand- 
ing about  an  inch  and  a  half  open. 

"  He  said — "  began  Evan,  in  a  trembling  voice 
— "  he  offered " 

"  Come  along,  you  fool !  "  shouted  Turnbull 
with  a  sudden  and  furious  energy.  *'  I  see  it  all 
now,  and  it's  the  best  stroke  of  luck  in  the  world. 
You  pulled  out  that  iron  handle  that  had  screwed 
•up  his  cell,  and  it  somehow  altered  the  machinery 
and  opened  all  the  doors." 

Seizing  Maclan  by  the  elbow  he  bundled  him 


THE    IDIOT  347 

bodily  out  into  the  open  corridor  and  ran  him  on 
till  they  saw  daylight  through  a  half-darkened 
window. 

"  All  the  same,"  said  Evan,  like  one  answering 
in  an  ordinary  conversation,  "  he  did  ask  you 
whether  he  could  help  you." 

All  this  wilderness  of  windowless  passages  was 
so  built  into  the  heart  of  that  fortress  of  fear  that 
it  seemed  more  than  an  hour  before  the  fugitives 
had  any  good  glimpse  of  the  outer  world.  They 
did  not  even  know  what  hour  of  the  day  it  was ; 
and  when,  turning  a  corner,  they  saw  the  bare 
tunnel  of  the  corridor  end  abruptly  in  a  shining 
square  of  garden,  the  grass  burning  in  that  strong 
evening  sunshine  which  makes  it  burnished  gold 
rather  than  green,  the  abrupt  opening  on  to  the 
earth  seemed  like  a  hole  knocked  in  the  wall  of 
heaven.  Only  once  or  twice  in  life  is  it  permitted 
to  a  man  thus  to  see  the  very  universe  from  out- 
side, and  feel  existence  itself  as  an  adorable  ad- 
venture not  yet  begun.  As  they  found  this  shin- 
ing escape  out  of  that  hellish  labyrinth  they  both 
had  simultaneously  the  sensation  of  being  babes 
unborn,  of  being  asked  by  God  if  they  would  like 
to  live  upon  the  earth.  They  were  looking  in  at 
one  of  the  seven  gates  of  Eden. 


348    THE    BALL   AND    THE    CROSS 

Turnbull  was  the  first  to  leap  into  the  garden, 
with  an  earth-spurning  leap  like  that  of  one  who 
could  really  spread  his  wings  and  fly.  Maclan, 
who  came  an  instant  after,  w^as  less  full  of  mere 
animal  gusto  and  fuller  of  a  more  fearful  and 
quivering  pleasure  in  the  clear  and  innocent 
flower  colours  and  the  high  and  holy  trees.  With 
one  bound  they  were  in  that  cool  and  cleared  land- 
scape, and  they  found  just  outside  the  door  the 
black-clad  gentleman  with  the  cloven  chin  smil- 
ingly regarding  them;  and  his  chin  seemed  to 
grow  longer  and  longer  as  he  smiled. 


CHAPTER    XVIII 


A   RIDDLE   OF   FACES 


Just  behind  him  stood  two  other  doctors :  one, 
the  famihar  Dr.  Quayle,  of  the  bhnking  eyes  and 
bleating  voice;  the  other,  a  more  commonplace 
but  much  more  forcible  figure,  a  stout  young  doc- 
tor with  short,  well-brushed  hair  and  a  round  but 
resolute  face.  At  the  sight  of  the  escape  these 
two  subordinates  uttered  a  cry  and  sprang  for- 
ward, but  their  superior  remained  motionless  and 
smiling,  and  somehow  the  lack  of  his  support 
seemed  to  arrest  and  freeze  them  in  the  very 
gesture  of  pursuit. 

"  Let  them  be,"  he  cried  in  a  voice  that  cut 
hke  a  blade  of  ice;  and  not  only  of  ice,  but  of 
some  awful  primordial  ice  that  had  never  been 
water. 

"  I  want  no  devoted  champions,"  said  the  cut- 
ting voice;  *'  even  the  folly  of  one's  friends  bores 
one  at  last.  You  don't  suppose  I  should  have  let 
these  lunatics  out  of  their  cells  without  good  rea- 
349 


350    THE    BALL   AND    THE    CROSS 

son.  I  have  the  best  and  fullest  reason.  They 
can  be  let  out  of  their  cell  to-day,  because  to-day 
the  whole  world  has  become  their  cell.  I  will  have 
no  more  mediaeval  mummery  of  chains  and  doors. 
Let  them  wander  about  the  earth  as  they  wan- 
dered about  this  garden,  and  I  shall  still  be  their 
easy  master.  Let  them  take  the  wings  of  the 
morning  and  abide  in  the  uttermost  parts  of  the 
sea — I  am  there.  Whither  shall  they  go  from  my 
presence  and  whither  shall  they  flee  from  my 
spirit  ?  Courage,  Dr.  Quayle,  and  do  not  be  down- 
hearted ;  the  real  days  of  tyranny  are  only  begin- 
ning on  this  earth." 

And  with  that  the  Master  laughed  and  swung 
away  from  them,  almost  as  if  his  laugh  was  a  bad 
thing  for  people  to  see. 

"  Might  I  speak  to  you  a  moment?  "  said  Turn- 
bull,  stepping  forward  with  a  respectful  resolu- 
tion. But  the  shoulders  of  the  Master  only  seemed 
to  take  on  a  new  and  unexpected  angle  of  mockery 
as  he  strode  away. 

TurnbuU  swung  round  with  great  abruptness 
to  the  other  two  doctors,  and  said,  harshly : 
"  What  in  snakes  does  he  mean — and  who  are 
you?" 

"  My  name  is  Hutton,"  said  the  short,  stout 


A    RIDDLE    OF    FACES  351 

man,  "  and  I  am — well,  one  of  those  whose  busi- 
ness it  is  to  uphold  this  establishment." 

"  My  name  is  Turnbull,"  said  the  other ;  "  I  am 
one  of  those  whose  business  it  is  to  tear  it  to  the 
ground." 

The  small  doctor  smiled,  and  Tumbull's  anger 
seemed  suddenly  to  steady  him. 

"  But  I  don't  want  to  talk  about  that,"  he  said, 
calmly ;  "  I  only  want  to  know  what  the  master 
of  this  asylum  really  means." 

Dr.  Hutton's  smile  broke  into  a  laugh  which, 
short  as  it  was,  had  the  suspicion  of  a  shake  in  it. 
"  I  suppose  you  think  that  quite  a  simple  ques- 
tion," he  said. 

"  I  think  it  a  plain  question,"  said  Turnbull, 
"  and  one  that  deserves  a  plain  answer.  Why  did 
the  Master  lock  us  up  in  a  couple  of  cupboards 
like  jars  of  pickles  for  a  mortal  month,  and  why 
does  he  now  let  us  walk  free  in  the  garden 
again?" 

"  I  understand,"  said  Hutton,  with  arched  eye- 
brows, "  that  your  complaint  is  that  you  are  now 
free  to  walk  in  the  garden." 

"  My  complaint  is,"  said  Turnbull,  stubbornly, 
"  that  if  I  am  fit  to  walk  freely  now,  I  have  been 
as  fit  for  the  last  month.     No  one  has  examined 


352    THE    BALL   AND    THE    CROSS 

me,  no  one  has  come  near  me.  Your  chief  says 
that  I  am  only  free  because  he  has  made  other 
arrangements.    What  are  those  arrangements  ?  " 

The  young  man  with  the  round  face  looked 
down  for  a  little  while  and  smoked  reflectively. 
The  other  and  elder  doctor  had  gone  pacing 
nervously  by  himself  upon  the  lawn.  At  length 
the  round  face  was  lifted  again,  and  showed  two 
round  blue  eyes  with  a  certain  frankness  in  them. 

"  Well,  I  don't  see  that  it  can  do  any  harm  to 
tell  you  now,"  he  said.  "  You  were  shut  up  just 
then  because  it  was  just  during  that  month  that 
the  Master  was  bringing  off  his  big  scheme.  He 
was  getting  his  bill  through  Parliament,  and  or- 
ganising the  new  medical  police.  But  of  course 
you  haven't  heard  of  all  that ;  in  fact,  you  weren't 
meant  to." 

"  Heard  of  all  what  ?  "  asked  the  impatient  in- 
quirer. 

"  There's  a  new  law  now,  and  the  asylum 
powers  are  greatly  extended.  Even  if  you  did 
escape  now,  any  policeman  would  take  you  up  in 
the  next  town  if  you  couldn't  show  a  certificate  of 
sanity  from  us." 

"Well,"  continued  Dr.  Hutton,  "the  Master  de- 
scribed before  both  Houses  of  Parliament  the  real 


A    RIDDLE    OF   FACES  353 

scientific  objection  to  all  existing  legislation  about 
lunacy.  As  he  very  truly  said,  the  mistake  was  in 
supposing  insanity  to  be  merely  an  exception  or 
an  extreme.  Insanity,  like  forgetfulness,  is  simply 
a  quality  which  enters  more  or  less  into  all  human 
beings ;  and  for  practical  purposes  it  is  more  nec- 
essary to  know  whose  mind  is  really  trustworthy 
than  whose  has  some  accidental  taint.  We  have 
therefore  reversed  the  existing  method,  and  peo- 
ple now  have  to  prove  that  they  are  sane.  In  the 
first  village  you  entered,  the  village  constable 
would  notice  that  you  were  not  wearing  on  the 
left  lapel  of  your  coat  the  small  pewter  S  which 
is  now  necessary  to  any  one  who  walks  about  be- 
yond asylum  bounds  or  outside  asylum  hours." 

"  You  mean  to  say,"  said  Turnbull,  "  that  this 
was  what  the  Master  of  the  asylum  urged  before 
the  House  of  Commons?  " 

Dr.  Hutton  nodded  with  gravity. 

"  And  you  mean  to  say,"  cried  Turnbull,  with 
a  vibrant  snort,  "  that  that  proposal  was  passed  in 
an  assembly  that  calls  itself  democratic?  " 

The  doctor  showed  his  whole  row  of  teeth  in  a 
smile.  "  Oh,  the  assembly  calls  itself  Socialist 
now,"  he  said,  "  but  we  explained  to  them  that 
this  was  a  question  for  men  of  science," 


354    THE    BALL   AND    THE    CROSS 

Tiirnbnll  gave  one  stamp  upon  the  gravel,  then 
pulled  himself  together,  and  resumed :  "  But  why- 
should  your  infernal  head  medicine-man  lock  us 
up  in  separate  cells  while  he  was  turning  Eng- 
land into  a  madhouse  ?  I'm  not  the  Prime  Minis- 
ter; we're  not  the  House  of  Lords." 

"  He  wasn't  afraid  of  the  Prime  Minister,"  re- 
plied Dr.  Hutton ;  *'  he  isn't  afraid  of  the  House 
of  Lords.    But " 

"  Well  ?  "  inquired  Turnbull,  stamping  again. 

"  He  is  afraid  of  you,"  said  Hutton,  simply. 
"  Why,  didn't  you  know  ?  " 

Maclan,  who  had  not  spoken  yet,  made  one 
stride  forward  and  stood  with  shaking  limbs  and 
shining  eyes. 

"  He  was  afraid !  "  began  Evan,  thickly.  "  You 
mean  to  say  that  we " 

"  I  mean  to  say  the  plain  truth  now  that  the 
danger  is  over,"  said  Hutton,  calmly ;  "  most  cer- 
tainly you  two  were  the  only  people  he  ever  was 
afraid  of."  Then  he  added  in  a  low  but  not  in- 
audible voice :  "  Except  one — whom  he  feared 
worse,  and  has  buried  deeper." 

"  Come  away,"  cried  Maclan,  "  this  has  to  be 
thought  about." 

Turnbull  followed  him  in  silence  as  he  strode 


A    RIDDLE    OF    FACES  355 

away,  but  just  before  he  vanished,  turned  and 
spoke  again  to  the  doctors. 

"  But  what  has  got  hold  of  people?  "  he  asked, 
abruptly.  "  Why  should  all  England  have  gone 
dotty  on  the  mere  subject  of  dottiness?  " 

Dr.  Hutton  smiled  his  open  smile  once  more 
and  bowed  slightly.  "  As  to  that  also,"  he  re- 
plied, "  I  don't  want  to  make  you  vain." 

TurnbuU  swung  round  without  a  word,  and  he 
and  his  companion  were  lost  in  the  lustrous  leaf- 
age of  the  garden.  They  noticed  nothing  special 
about  the  scene,  except  that  the  garden  seemed 
more  exquisite  than  ever  in  the  deepening  sunset, 
and  that  there  seemed  to  be  many  more  people, 
whether  patients  or  attendants,  walking  about 
in  it. 

From  behind  the  two  black-coated  doctors  as 
they  stood  on  the  lawn  another  figure  somewhat 
similarly  dressed  strode  hurriedly  past  them,  hav- 
ing also  grizzled  hair  and  an  open  flapping  frock- 
coat.  Both  his  decisive  step  and  dapper  black 
array  marked  him  out  as  another  medical  man,  or 
at  least  a  man  in  authority,  and  as  he  passed 
Tumbull  the  latter  was  aroused  by  a  strong  im- 
pression of  having  seen  the  man  somewhere  be- 
fore.    It  was  no  one  that  he  knew  well,  yet  he 


356    THE    BALL    AND    THE    CROSS 

was  certain  that  it  was  some  one  at  whom  he  had 
at  some  time  or  other  looked  steadily.  It  was 
neither  the  face  of  a  friend  nor  of  an  enemy;  it 
aroused  neither  irritation  nor  tenderness,  yet  it 
was  a  face  which  had  for  some  reason  been  of 
great  importance  in  his  life.  Turning  and  return- 
ing, and  making  detours  about  the  garden,  he 
managed  to  study  the  man's  face  again  and  again 
— a  moustached,  somewhat  military  face  with  a 
monocle,  the  sort  of  face  that  is  aristocratic  with- 
out being  distinguished.  Turnbull  could  not  re- 
member any  particular  doctors  in  his  decidedly 
healthy  existence.  Was  the  man  a  long-lost  uncle, 
or  was  he  only  somebody  who  had  sat  opposite 
him  regularly  in  a  railway  train?  At  that  mo- 
ment the  man  knocked  down  his  own  eye-glass 
with  a  gesture  of  annoyance;  Turnbull  remem- 
bered the  gesture,  and  the  truth  sprang  up  solid 
in  front  of  him.  The  man  with  the  moustaches 
was  Cumberland  Vane,  the  London  police  magis- 
trate before  whom  he  and  Maclan  had  once  stood 
on  their  trial.  The  magistrate  must  have  been 
transferred  to  some  other  official  duties — to  some- 
thing connected  with  the  inspection  of  asylums. 

Turnbull's   heart  gave   a   leap  of  excitement 
which  was  half  hope.    As  a  magistrate  Mr.  Cum- 


A    RIDDLE    OF   FACES  357 

berland  Vane  had  been  somewhat  careless  and 
shallow,  but  certainly  kindly,  and  not  inaccessible 
to  common-sense  so  long  as  it  was  put  to  him  in 
strictly  conventional  language.  He  was  at  least 
an  authority  of  a  more  human  and  refreshing  sort 
than  the  crank  with  the  wagging  beard  or  the 
fiend  with  the  forked  chin. 

He  went  straight  up  to  the  magistrate,  and 
said :  "  Good-evening,  Mr.  Vane ;  I  doubt  if  you 
remember  me." 

Cumberland  Vane  screwed  the  eye-glass  into 
his  scowling  face  for  an  instant,  and  then  said 
curtly  but  not  uncivilly :  "  Yes,  I  remember  you, 
sir ;  assault  or  battery,  wasn't  it  ? — a  fellow  broke 
your  window.  A  tall  fellow — McSomething — 
case  made  rather  a  noise  afterward." 

"  Maclan  is  the  name,  sir,"  said  Turnbull,  re- 
spectfully ;  "  I  have  him  here  with  me." 

"  Eh !  "  said  Vane  very  sharply.  "  Confound 
him!  Has  he  got  anything  to  do  with  this 
game  ?  " 

**  Mr.  Vane,"  said  Turnbull,  pacifically,  *'  I  will 
not  pretend  that  either  he  or  I  acted  quite  decor- 
ously on  that  occasion.  You  were  very  lenient 
with  us,  and  did  not  treat  us  as  criminals  when 
you  very  well  might.    So  I  am  sure  you  will  give 


358    THE    BALL    AND    THE    CROSS 

us  your  testimony  that,  even  if  we  were  criminals, 
we  are  not  lunatics  in  any  legal  or  medical  sense 
whatever.  I  am  sure  you  will  use  your  influence 
for  us." 

"  My  influence !  "  repeated  the  magistrate,  with 
a  slight  start,     "  I  don't  quite  understand  you." 

"  I  don't  know  in  what  capacity  you  are  here," 
continued  Turnbull,  gravely,  "  but  a  legal  author- 
ity of  your  distinction  must  certainly  be  here  in 
an  important  one.  Whether  you  are  visiting  and 
inspecting  the  place,  or  attached  to  it  as  some  kind 
of  permanent  legal  adviser,  your  opinion  must 
still " 

Cumberland  Vane  exploded  with  a  detonation 
of  oaths ;  his  face  was  transfigured  with  fury  and 
contempt,  and  yet  in  some  odd  way  he  did  not 
seem  specially  angry  with  Turnbull. 

"  But  God  blast  my  soul  and  body !  "  he  gasped, 
at  length ;  "  I'm  not  here  as  an  official  at  all.  I'm 
here  as  a  patient.  The  cursed  pack  of  rat-catch- 
ing chemists  all  say  that  I've  lost  my  wits." 

"  You !  "  cried  Turnbull  with  terrible  emphasis. 
"  You !    Lost  your  wits !  " 

In  the  rush  of  his  real  astonishment  at  this  tow- 
ering unreality  Turnbull  almost  added :  "  Why, 
you  haven't  got  any  to  lose."    But  he  fortunately 


A    RIDDLE    OF    FACES  359 

remembered  the  remains  of  his  desperate  diplo- 
macy. 

"  This  can't  go  on,"  he  said,  positively.  "  Men 
like  Maclan  and  I  may  suffer  unjustly  all  our 
lives,  but  a  man  like  you  must  have  influence." 

"  There  is  only  one  man  who  has  any  influence 
in  England  novi%"  said  Vane,  and  his  high  voice 
fell  to  a  sudden  and  convincing  quietude. 

"  Whom  do  you  mean  ?  "  asked  TurnbuU. 

"  I  mean  that  cursed  fellov^  with  the  long  split 
chin,"  said  the  other. 

"  Is  it  really  true,"  asked  TurnbuU,  "  that  he 
has  been  allowed  to  buy  up  and  control  such  a 
lot  ?    What  put  the  country  into  such  a  state  ?  " 

Mr.  Cumberland  Vane  laughed  outright. 
"What  put  the  country  into  such  a  state?"  he 
asked.  "  Why,  you  did.  When  you  were  fool 
enough  to  agree  to  fight  Maclan,  after  all,  every- 
body was  ready  to  believe  that  the  Bank  of  Eng- 
land might  paint  itself  pink  with  white  spots." 

"  I  don't  understand,"  answered  TurnbuU. 
"Why  should  you  be  surprised  at  my  fighting? 
I  hope  I  have  always  fought." 

"  Well,"  said  Cumberland  Vane,  airily,  "  you 
didn't  believe  in  religion,  you  see — so  we  thought 
you  were  safe  at  any  ratq.    You  went  further  in 


360    THE    BALL   AND    THE    CROSS 

your  language  than  most  of  us  wanted  to  go ;  no 
good  in  just  hurting  one's  mother's  feehngs,  I 
think.  But  of  course  we  all  knew  you  were  right, 
and,  really,  we  relied  on  you." 

"  Did  you  ?  "  said  the  editor  of  the  "  Atheist  " 
with  a  bursting  heart.  "  I  am  sorry  you  did  not 
tell  me  so  at  the  time." 

He  walked  away  very  rapidly  and  flung  himself 
on  a  garden-seat,  and  for  some  six  minutes  his 
own  wrongs  hid  from  him  the  huge  and  hilarious 
fact  that  Cumberland  Vane  had  been  locked  up  as 
a  lunatic. 

The  garden  of  the  madhouse  was  so  perfectly 
planned,  and  answered  so  exquisitely  to  every 
hour  of  daylight,  that  one  could  almost  fancy  that 
the  sunlight  was  caught  there  tangled  in  its  tinted 
trees,  as  the  wise  men  of  Gotham  tried  to  chain 
the  spring  to  a  bush.  Or  it  seemed  as  if  this  ironic 
paradise  still  kept  its  unique  dawn  or  its  special 
sunset  while  the  rest  of  the  earthly  globe  rolled 
through  its  ordinary  hours.  There  was  one  even- 
ing, or  late  afternoon,  in  particular,  w-hich  Evan 
Maclan  w^ill  remember  in  the  last  moments  of 
death.  It  was  what  artists  call  a  daffodil  sky,  but 
it  is  coarsened  even  by  reference  to  a  daffodil.  It 
was  of  that  innocent  lonely  yellow  which   has 


A    RIDDLE    OF   FACES  361 

never  heard  of  orange,  though  it  might  turn  quite 
unconsciously  into  green.  Against  it  the  tops, 
one  might  say  the  turrets,  of  the  cHpt  and  or- 
dered trees  were  outHned  in  that  shade  of  veiled 
violet  which  tints  the  tops  of  lavender,  A  white 
early  moon  was  hardly  traceable  upon  that  deli- 
cate yellow.  Maclan,  I  say,  will  remember  this 
tender  and  transparent  evening,  partly  because  of 
its  virgin  gold  and  silver,  and  partly  because  he 
passed  beneath  it  through  the  most  horrible  in- 
stant of  his  life. 

Turnbull  was  sitting  on  his  seat  on  the  lawn, 
and  the  golden  evening  impressed  even  his  pos- 
itive nature,  as  indeed  it  might  have  impressed 
the  oxen  in  a  field.  He  was  shocked  out  of  his 
idle  mood  of  awe  by  seeing  Maclan  break  from 
behind  the  bushes  and  run  across  the  lawn  with 
an  action  he  had  never  seen  in  the  man  before, 
with  all  his  experience  of  the  eccentric  humours 
of  this  Celt.  Maclan  fell  on  the  bench,  shaking 
it  so  that  it  rattled,  and  gripped  it  with  his  knees 
like  one  in  dreadful  pain  of  body.  That  particu- 
lar run  and  tumble  is  typical  only  of  a  man  who 
has  been  hit  by  some  sudden  and  incurable  evil, 
who  is  bitten  by  a  viper  or  condemned  to  be  hung. 
Turnbull  looked  up  in  the  white  face  of  his  friend 


362    THE    BALL   AND    THE    CROSS 

and  enemy,  and  almost  turned  cold  at  what  he 
saw  there.  He  had  seen  the  blue  but  gloomy  eyes 
of  the  western  Highlander  troubled  by  as  many 
tempests  as  his  own  west  Highland  seas,  but  there 
had  always  been  a  fixed  star  of  faith  behind  the 
storms.  Now  the  star  had  gone  out,  and  there 
was  only  misery. 

Yet  Maclan  had  the  strength  to  answer  the 
question  where  Turnbull,  taken  by  surprise,  had 
not  the  strength  to  ask  it. 

"  They  are  right,  they  are  right !  "  he  cried. 
"  O  my  God !  they  are  right,  Turnbull.  I  ought 
to  be  here !  " 

He  went  on  with  shapeless  fluency  as  if  he  no 
longer  had  the  heart  to  choose  or  check  his  speech. 
"  I  suppose  I  ought  to  have  guessed  long  ago — 
all  my  big  dreams  and  schemes — and  every  one 
being  against  us — but  I  was  stuck  up,  you  know." 

"  Do  tell  me  about  it,  really,"  cried  the  atheist, 
and,  faced  with  the  furnace  of  the  other's  pain,  he 
did  not  notice  that  he  spoke  with  the  affection  of 
a  father. 

"  I  am  mad,  Turnbull,"  said  Evan,  with  a  dead 
clearness  of  speech,  and  leant  back  against  the 
garden-seat. 

"  Nonsense,"  said  the  other,  clutching  at  the 


A    RIDDLE    OF    FACES  3^3 

obvious  cue  of  benevolent  brutality,  "  this  is  one 
of  your  silly  moods." 

Maclan  shook  his  head.  "  I  know  enough 
about  myself,"  he  said,  "  to  allow  for  any  mood, 
though  it  opened  heaven  or  hell.  But  to  see  things 
— to  see  them  walking  solid  in  the  sun — things 
that  can't  be  there — real  mystics  never  do  that, 
Turnbull." 

"What  things?"  asked  the  other,  incredu- 
lously. 

Maclan  lowered  his  voice.  "  I  saw  her,"  he 
said,  "  three  minutes  ago — walking  here  in  this 
hell  yard." 

Between  trying  to  look  scornful  and  really 
looking  startled,  Turnbull's  face  was  confused 
enough  to  emit  no  speech,  and  Evan  went  on  in 
monotonous  sincerity : 

"  I  saw  her  walk  behind  those  blessed  trees 
against  that  holy  sky  of  gold  as  plain  as  I  can  see 
her  whenever  I  shut  my  eyes.  I  did  shut  them, 
and  opened  them  again,  and  she  was  still  there — 
that  is,  of  course,  she  wasn't —  She  still  had  a 
little  fur  round  her  neck,  but  her  dress  was  a 
shade  brighter  than  when  I  really  saw  her." 

"  My  dear  fellow,"  cried  Turnbull,  rallying  a 
hearty  laugh,  "  the  fancies  have  really  got  hold  of 


364    THE    BALL   AND    THE    CROSS 

you.  You  mistook  some  other  poor  girl  here  for 
her." 

"  Mistook  some  other — "  said  Maclaii,  and 
words  failed  him  altogether. 

They  sat  for  some  moments  in  the  mellow  si- 
lence of  the  evening  garden,  a  silence  that  was 
stifling  for  the  sceptic,  but  utterly  empty  and  final 
for  the  man  of  faith.  At  last  he  broke  out  again 
with  the  words :  "  Well,  anyhow,  if  I'm  mad,  I'm 
glad  I'm  mad  on  that." 

Turnbull  murmured  some  clumsy  deprecation, 
and  sat  stolidly  smoking  to  collect  his  thoughts; 
the  next  instant  he  had  all  his  nerves  engaged  in 
the  mere  effort  to  sit  still. 

Across  the  clear  space  of  cold  silver  and  a  pale 
lemon  sky  which  was  left  by  the  gap  in  the  ilex- 
trees  there  passed  a  slim,  dark  figure,  a  profile  and 
the  poise  of  a  dark  head  like  a  bird's,  which  really 
pinned  him  to  his  seat  with  the  point  of  coin- 
cidence. With  an  effort  he  got  to  his  feet,  and 
said  with  a  voice  of  affected  insouciance :  "  By 
George !  Maclan,  she  is  uncommonly  like " 

"  What !  "  cried  Maclan,  with  a  leap  of  eager- 
ness that  was  heart-breaking,  "  do  you  see  her, 
too  ?  "  And  the  blaze  came  back  into  the  centre 
of  his  eyes. 


A    RIDDLE    OF    FACES  365 

Turnbull's  tawny  eyebrows  were  pulled  to- 
gether with  a  peculiar  frown  of  curiosity,  and  all 
at  once  he  walked  quickly  across  the  lawn.  Mac- 
Ian  sat  rigid,  but  peered  after  him  with  open  and 
parched  lips.  He  saw  the  sight  which  either 
proved  him  sane  or  proved  the  whole  universe 
half-witted ;  he  saw  the  man  of  flesh  approach  that 
beautiful  phantom,  saw  their  gestures  of  recogni- 
tion, and  saw  them  against  the  sunset  joining 
hands. 

He  could  stand  it  no  longer,  but  ran  across  to 
the  path,  turned  the  corner  and  saw  standing  quite 
palpable  in  the  evening  sunlight,  talking  with  a 
casual  grace  to  Turnbull,  the  face  and  figure 
which  had  filled  his  midnights  with  frightfully 
vivid  or  desperately  half- forgotten  features.  She 
advanced  quite  pleasantly  and  coolly,  and  put 
out  her  hand.  The  moment  that  he  touched  it 
he  knew  that  he  was  sane  even  if  the  solar  system 
was  crazy. 

She  was  entirely  elegant  and  unembarrassed. 
That  is  the  awful  thing  about  women — they  re- 
fuse to  be  emotional  at  emotional  moments,  upon 
some  such  ludicrous  pretext  as  there  being  some 
one  else  there.  But  Maclan  was  in  a  condition  of 
criticism  much  less  than  the  average  masculine 


366    THE    BALL    AND    THE    CROSS 

one,  being  in  fact  merely  overturned  by  the  rush- 
ing riddle  of  the  events. 

Evan  does  not  know  to  this  day  of  what  par- 
ticular question  he  asked,  but  he  vividly  remem- 
bers that  she  answered,  and  every  line  or  fluctua- 
tion of  her  face  as  she  said  it. 

"  Oh,  don't  you  know  ?  "  she  said,  smiling,  and 
suddenly  lifting  her  level  brown  eyebrows. 
"  Haven't  you  heard  the  news  ?    I'm  a  lunatic." 

Then  she  added  after  a  short  pause,  and  with  a 
sort  of  pride :  "  I've  got  a  certificate." 

Her  manner,  by  the  matchless  social  stoicism 
of  her  sex,  was  entirely  suited  to  a  drawing-room, 
but  Evan's  reply  fell  somewhat  far  short  of  such 
a  standard,  as  he  only  said :  "  What  the  devil  in 
hell  does  all  this  nonsense  mean  ?  " 

"  Really,"  said  the  young  lady,  and  laughed. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  the  unhappy  young 
man,  rather  wildly,  "  but  what  I  mean  is,  why  are 
you  here  in  an  asylum  ?  " 

The  young  woman  broke  again  into  one  of  the 
maddening  and  mysterious  laughs  of  femininity. 
Then  she  composed  her  features,  and  replied  with 
equal  dignity :  "  Well,  if  it  comes  to  that,  why  are 
you?" 

The  fact  that  Tumbull  had  strolled  away  and 


A    RIDDLE    OF    FACES  367 

was  investigating  rhododendrons  may  have  been 
due  to  Evan's  successful  prayers  to  the  other 
v^orld,  or  possibly  to  his  own  pretty  successful  ex- 
perience of  this  one.  But  though  they  two  were 
as  isolated  as  a  new  Adam  and  Eve  in  a  pretty 
ornamental  Eden,  the  lady  did  not  relax  by  an 
inch  the  rigour  of  her  badinage. 

"  I  am  locked  up  in  the  madhouse,"  said  Evan, 
with  a  sort  of  stifif  pride,  "  because  I  tried  to  keep 
my  promise  to  you." 

"  Quite  so,"  answered  the  inexphcable  lady, 
nodding  with  a  perfectly  blazing  smile,  "  and  I  am 
locked  up  because  it  was  to  me  you  promised." 

**  It  is  outrageous !  "  cried  Evan ;  "  it  is  impos- 
sible!" 

"  Oh,  you  can  see  my  certificate  if  you  like," 
she  replied  with  some  hauteur. 

Maclan  stared  at  her  and  then  at  his  boots,  and 
then  at  the  sky  and  then  at  her  again.  He  was 
quite  sure  now  that  he  himself  was  not  mad,  and 
the  fact  rather  added  to  his  perplexity. 

Then  he  drew  nearer  to  her,  and  said  in  a  dry 
and  dreadful  voice :  "  Oh,  don't  condescend  to 
play  the  fool  with  such  a  fool  as  me.  Are  you 
really  locked  up  here  as  a  patient — because  you 
helped  us  to  escape  ?  " 


368    THE    BALL   AND    THE    CROSS 

"  Yes,"  said  she,  still  smiling,  but  her  steady 
voice  had  a  shake  in  it. 

Evan  flung  his  big  elbow  across  his  forehead 
and  burst  into  tears. 

The  pure  lemon  of  the  sky  faded  into  purer 
white  as  the  great  sunset  silently  collapsed.  The 
birds  settled  back  into  the  trees ;  the  moon  began 
to  glow  with  its  own  light.  Mr.  James  Tumbull 
continued  his  botanical  researches  into  the  struc- 
ture of  the  rhododendron.  But  the  lady  did  not 
move  an  inch  until  Evan  had  flung  up  his  face 
again ;  and  when  he  did  he  saw  by  the  last  gleam 
of  sunlight  that  it  was  not  only  his  face  that  was 
wet. 

Mr.  James  Turnbull  had  all  his  life  professed 
a  profound  interest  in  physical  science,  and  the 
phenomena  of  a  good  garden  were  really  a  pleas- 
ure to  him ;  but  after  three-quarters  of  an  hour  or 
so  even  the  apostle  of  science  began  to  find 
rhododendrus  a  bore,  and  was  somewhat  relieved 
when  an  unexpected  development  of  events 
obliged  him  to  transfer  his  researches  to  the 
equally  interesting  subject  of  hollyhocks,  which 
grew  some  fifty  feet  farther  along  the  path.  The 
ostensible  cause  of  his  removal  was  the  unex- 
pected reappearance  of  his  two  other  acquaint- 


A    RIDDLE    OF    FACES  369 

ances  walking  and  talking  laboriously  along  the 
way,  with  the  black  head  bent  close  to  the  brown 
one.  Even  hollyhocks  detained  Turnbull  but  a 
short  time.  Having  rapidly  absorbed  all  the  im- 
portant principles  affecting  the  growth  of  those 
vegetables,  he  jumped  over  a  flower-bed  and 
walked  back  into  the  building.  The  other  two 
came  up  along  the  slow  course  of  the  path  talking 
and  talking.  No  one  but  God  knows  what  they 
said  (for  they  certainly  have  forgotten),  and  if  I 
remembered  it  I  would  not  repeat  it.  When  they 
parted  at  the  head  of  the  walk  she  put  out  her 
hand  again  in  the  same  well-bred  way,  although  it 
trembled;  he  seemed  to  restrain  a  gesture  as  he 
let  it  fall. 

"  If  it  is  really  always  to  be  like  this,"  he  said, 
thickly,  "  it  would  not  matter  if  we  were  here  for 
ever." 

"  You  tried  to  kill  yourself  four  times  for  me," 
she  said,  unsteadily,  **  and  I  have  been  chained  up 
as  a  madwoman  for  you.  I  really  think  that  after 
that " 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  said  Evan  in  a  low  voice, 
looking  down.  "  After  that  we  belong  to 
each  other.  We  are  sort  of  sold  to  each  other 
— until  the  stars  fall."    Then  he  looked  up  sud- 


370    THE    BALL    AND    THE    CROSS 

denly,  and   said :   "  By  the   Nvay,   what  is   your 
name  ?  " 

"  My  name  is  Beatrice  Drake,"  she  repHed  with 
complete  gravity.  "  You  can  see  it  on  my  certifi- 
cate of  lunacy." 


CHAPTER    XIX 


THE   LAST  PARLEY 


TuRNBULL  walked  away,  wildly  trying  to  ex- 
plain to  himself  the  presence  of  two  personal  ac- 
quaintances so  different  as  Vane  and  the  girl. 
As  he  skirted  a  low  hedge  of  laurel,  an  enor- 
mously tall  young  man  leapt  over  it,  stood  in 
front  of  him,  and  almost  fell  on  his  neck  as  if 
seeking  to  embrace  him, 

"  Don't  you  know  me  ?  "  almost  sobbed  the 
young  man,  who  was  in  the  highest  spirits. 
"  Ain't  I  written  on  your  heart,  old  boy  ?  I  say, 
what  did  you  do  with  my  yacht?  " 

"  Take  your  arms  off  my  neck,"  said  Tumbull, 
irritably.    "  Are  you  mad  ?  " 

The  young  man  sat  down  on  the  gravel-path 
and  went  into  ecstasies  of  laughter.  "  No,  that's 
just  the  fun  of  it — I'm  not  mad,"  he  replied. 
"  They've  shut  me  up  in  this  place,  and  I'm  not 
mad,"  And  he  went  off  again  into  mirth  as  inno- 
cent as  wedding-bells, 

371 


372     THE    BALL   AND    THE    CROSS 

Turnbull,  whose  powers  of  surprise  were  ex- 
hausted, rolled  his  round  gray  eyes  and  said, 
"  Mr.  Wilkinson,  I  think,"  because  he  could  not 
think  of  anything  else  to  say. 

The  tall  man  sitting  on  the  gravel  bowed  with 
urbanity,  and  said :  "  Quite  at  your  service.  Not 
to  be  confused  with  the  Wilkinsons  of  Cumber- 
land ;  and  as  I  say,  old  boy,  what  have  you  done 
with  my  yacht?  You  see,  they've  locked  me  up 
here — in  this  garden — and  a  yacht  would  be  a 
sort  of  occupation  for  an  unmarried  man." 

"  I  am  really  horribly  sorry,"  began  Turnbull, 
in  the  last  stage  of  bated  bewilderment  and  exas- 
peration, "  but  really " 

"  Oh,  I  can  see  you  can't  have  it  on  you  at  the 
moment,"  said  Mr.  Wilkinson  with  much  intel- 
lectual magnanimity. 

"  Well,  the  fact  is — "  began  Turnbull  again, 
and  then  the  phrase  was  frozen  on  his  mouth,  for 
round  the  corner  came  the  goatlike  face  and 
gleaming  eye-glasses  of  Dr.  Quayle. 

"  Ah,  my  dear  Mr.  Wilkinson,"  said  the  doc- 
tor, as  if  delighted  at  a  coincidence ;  ''  and  Mr. 
Turnbull,  too.  Why,  I  want  to  speak  to  Mr. 
Turnbull." 

Mr.  Turnbull  made  some  movement  rather  of 


THE    LAST    PARLEY  373 

surrender  than  assent,  and  the  doctor  caught  it  up 
exquisitely,  showing  even  more  of  his  two  front 
teeth.  "  I  am  sure  Mr.  Wilkinson  will  excuse  us 
a  moment."  And  with  flying  frock-coat  he  led 
Turnbull  rapidly  round  the  corner  of  a  path. 

"  My  dear  sir,"  he  said,  in  a  quite  affectionate 
manner,  "  I  do  not  mind  telling  you — you  are 
such  a  very  hopeful  case — you  understand  so  well 
the  scientific  point  of  view ;  and  I  don't  like  to  see 
you  bothered  by  the  really  hopeless  cases.  They 
are  monotonous  and  maddening.  The  man  you 
have  just  been  talking  to,  poor  fellow,  is  one  of 
the  strongest  cases  of  pure  idee  Uxe  that  we  have. 
It's  very  sad,  and  I'm  afraid  utterly  incurable. 
He  keeps  on  telling  everybody  " — and  the  doctor 
lowered  his  voice  confidentially — "  he  tells  every- 
body that  two  people  have  taken  his  yacht.  His 
account  of  how  he  lost  it  is  quite  incoherent." 

Turnbull  stamped  his  foot  on  the  gravel-path, 
and  called  out :  "  Oh,  I  can't  stand  this. 
Really " 

"  I  know,  I  know,"  said  the  psychologist, 
mournfully ;  "  it  is  a  most  melancholy  case,  and 
also  fortunately  a  very  rare  one.  It  is  so  rare,  in 
fact,  that  in  one  classification  of  these  maladies 
it  is  entered  under  a  heading  by  itself — Perdina- 


374    THE    BALL   AND    THE    CROSS 

vititis,  mental  inflammation  creating  the  impres- 
sion that  one  has  lost  a  ship.  Really,"  he  added, 
with  a  kind  of  half-embarrassed  guilt,  "  it's 
rather  a  feather  in  my  cap.  I  discovered  the  only 
existing  case  of  perdinavititis." 

"  But  this  won't  do,  doctor,"  said  Turnbull,  al- 
most tearing  his  hair,  "  this  really  won't  do.  The 
man  really  did  lose  a  ship.  Indeed,  not  to  put  too 
fine  a  point  on  it,  I  took  his  ship." 

Dr.  Quayle  swung  round  for  an  instant  so  that 
his  silk-lined  overcoat  rustled,  and  stared  singu- 
larly at  Turnbull.  Then  he  said  with  hurried 
amiability :  "  Why,  of  course  you  did.  Quite  so, 
quite  so,"  and  with  courteous  gestures  went 
striding  up  the  garden-path.  Under  the  first 
laburnum-tree  he  stopped,  however,  and  pulling 
out  his  pencil  and  note-book  wrote  down  fever- 
ishly ;  "  Singular  development  in  the  Elenthero- 
maniac,  Turnbull.  Sudden  manifestation  of 
Rapinavititis — the  delusion  that  one  has  stolen  a 
ship.    First  case  ever  recorded." 

Turnbull  stood  for  an  instant  staggered  into 
stillness.  Then  he  ran  raging  round  the  garden 
to  find  Maclan,  just  as  a  husband,  even  a  bad 
husband,  will  run  raging  to  find  his  wife  if  he  is 
full  of  a  furious  query.    He  found  Maclan  stalk- 


THE    LAST    PARLEY  375 

ing  moodily  about  the  half-lit  garden,  after  his 
extraordinary  meeting  with  Beatrice.  No  one 
who  saw  his  slouching  stride  and  sunken  head 
could  have  known  that  his  soul  was  in  the  seventh 
heaven  of  ecstasy.  He  did  not  think ;  he  did  not 
even  very  definitely  desire.  He  merely  wallowed 
in  memories,  chiefly  in  material  memories ;  words 
said  with  a  certain  cadence  or  trivial  turns  of  the 
neck  or  wrist.  Into  the  middle  of  his  stationary 
and  senseless  enjoyment  were  thrust  abniptly  the 
projecting  elbow  and  the  projecting  red  beard  of 
Turnbull.  Maclan  stepped  back  a  little,  and  the 
soul  in  his  eyes  came  very  slowly  to  its  windows. 
When  James  Turnbull  had  the  glittering  sword- 
point  planted  upon  his  breast  he  was  in  far  less 
danger.  For  three  pulsating  seconds  after  the  in- 
terruption Maclan  was  in  a  mood  to  have  mur- 
dered his  father. 

And  yet  his  whole  emotional  anger  fell  from 
him  when  he  saw  Turnbull's  face,  in  which  the 
eyes  seemed  to  be  bursting  from  the  head  like 
bullets.  All  the  fire  and  fragrance  even  of 
young  and  honourable  love  faded  for  a  moment 
before  that  stiff  agony  of  interrogation. 

"Are  you  hurt,  Turnbull?"  he  asked,  anx- 
iously. 


376     THE    BALL   AND    THE    CROSS 

"  I  am  dying,"  answered  the  other  quite  calmly. 
"  I  am  in  the  quite  literal  sense  of  the  words  dying 
to  know  something.  I  want  to  know  what  all  this 
can  possibly  mean." 

Maclan  did  not  answer,  and  he  continued  with 
asperity :  "  You  are  still  thinking  about  that  girl, 
but  I  tell  you  the  whole  thing  is  incredible.  She's 
not  the  only  person  here.  I've  met  that  fellow 
Wilkinson,  whose  yacht  we  lost.  I've  met 
the  very  magistrate  you  were  hauled  up  to 
when  you  broke  my  window.  What  can  it 
mean — meeting  all  these  old  people  again?  One 
never  meets  such  old  friends  again  except  in  a 
dream." 

Then  after  a  silence  he  cried  with  a  rending 
sincerity :  "  Are  you  really  there,  Evan  ?  Have 
you  ever  been  really  there  ?  Am  I  simply  dream- 
ing?" 

Maclan  had  been  listening  with  a  living  silence 
to  every  word,  and  now  his  face  flamed  with  one 
of  his  rare  revelations  of  life. 

"  No,  you  good  atheist,"  he  cried ;  "  no,  you 
clean,  courteous,  reverent,  pious  old  blasphemer. 
No,  you  are  not  dreaming — you  are  waking  up." 

"  What  do  you  mean?  " 

"  There  are  two  states  where  one  meets  so 


THE    LAST    PARLEY  377 

many  old  friends,"  said  Maclan ;  "  one  is  a  dream, 
the  other  is  the  end  of  the  world." 

"  And  you  say " 

"  I  say  this  is  not  a  dream,"  said  Evan  in  a 
ringing  voice. 

"  You  really  mean  to  suggest — "  began  Turn- 
bull. 

"  Be  silent !  or  I  shall  say  it  all  wrong,"  said 
Maclan,  breathing  hard.  "  It's  hard  to  explain, 
anyhow.  An  apocalypse  is  the  opposite  of  a 
dream.  A  dream  is  falser  than  the  outer  life. 
But  the  end  of  the  world  is  more  actual  than  the 
world  it  ends.  I  don't  say  this  is  really  the  end 
of  the  world,  but  it's  something  like  that — it's  the 
end  of  something.  All  the  people  are  crowding 
into  one  corner.  Everything  is  coming  to  a 
point." 

"  What  is  the  point?  "  asked  Tumbull. 

"  I  can't  see  it,"  said  Evan ;  "  it  is  too  large  and 
plain." 

Then  after  a  silence  he  said :  "  I  can't  see  it — 
and  yet  I  will  try  to  describe  it.  Turnbull,  three 
days  ago  I  saw  quite  suddenly  that  our'  duel  was 
not  right,  after  all." 

"  Three  days  ago ! "  repeated  Turnbull.  *'  When 
and  why  did  this  illumination  occur?  " 


378    THE    BALL   AND    THE    CROSS 

"  I  knew  I  was  not  quite  right,"  answered 
Evan,  "  the  moment  I  saw  the  round  eyes  of  that 
old  man  in  the  cell." 

"  Old  man  in  the  cell !  "  repeated  his  wondering 
companion.  "  Do  you  mean  the  poor  old  idiot 
who  likes  spikes  to  stick  out  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Maclan,  after  a  slight  pause,  *'  i 
mean  the  poor  old  idiot  who  likes  spikes  to  stick 
out.  When  I  saw  his  eyes  and  heard  his  old 
croaking  accent,  I  knew  that  it  would  not  really 
have  been  right  to  kill  you.  It  would  have  been 
a  venial  sin." 

"  I  am  much  obliged,"  said  Tumbull,  gruffly. 

"  You  must  give  me  time,"  said  Maclan,  quite 
patiently,  "  for  I  am  trying  to  tell  the  whole 
truth.  I  am  trying  to  tell  more  of  it  than  I  know." 

"  So  you  see  I  confess " — ^he  went  on  with 
laborious  distinctness — "  I  confess  that  all  the 
people  who  called  our  duel  mad  were  right  in  a 
way.  I  would  confess  it  to  old  Cumberland  Vane 
and  his  eye-glass.  I  would  confess  it  even  to  that 
old  ass  in  brown  flannel  who  talked  to  us  about 
Love.  Yes,  they  are  right  in  a  way.  I  am  a  lit- 
tle mad." 

He  stopped  and  wiped  his  brow  as  if  he  were 
literally  doing  heavy  labour.    Then  he  went  on : 


THE    LAST    PARLEY  379 

"  I  am  a  little  mad ;  but,  after  all,  it  is  only  a 
little  madness.  When  hundreds  of  high-minded 
men  had  fought  duels  about  a  jostle  with  the  el- 
bow or  the  ace  of  spades,  the  whole  world  need 
not  have  gone  wild  over  my  one  little  wildness. 
Plenty  of  other  people  have  killed  themselves  be- 
tween then  and  now.  But  all  England  has  gone 
into  captivity  in  order  to  take  us  captive.  All 
England  has  turned  into  a  lunatic  asylum  in  order 
to  prove  us  lunatics.  Compared  with  the  general 
public,  I  might  positively  be  called  sane." 

He  stopped  again,  and  went  on  with  the  same 
air  of  travailing  with  the  truth : 

"  When  I  saw  that,  I  saw  everything ;  I  saw  the 
Church  and  the  world.  The  Church  in  its  earthly 
action  has  really  touched  morbid  things — tortures 
and  bleeding  visions  and  blasts  of  extermination. 
The  Church  has  had  her  madnesses,  and  I  am  one 
of  them.  I  am  the  massacre  of  St.  Bartholomew. 
I  am  the  Inquisition  of  Spain.  I  do  not  say  that 
we  have  never  gone  mad,  but  I  say  that  we  are 
fit  to  act  as  keepers  to  our  enemies.  Massacre  is 
wicked  even  with  a  provocation,  as  in  the  Bar- 
tholomew. But  your  modern  Nietzsche  will  tell 
you  that  massacre  would  be  glorious  without  a 
provocation.  Torture  should  be  violently  stopped, 


38o    THE    BALL   AND    THE    CROSS 

though  the  Church  is  doing  it.  But  your  modern 
Tolstoy  will  tell  you  that  it  ought  not  to  be  vio- 
lently stopped  whoever  is  doing  it.  In  the  long 
run, which  is  most  mad — the  Church  or  the  world? 
Which  is  madder,  the  Spanish  priest  who  permit- 
ted tyranny,  or  the  Prussian  sophist  who  admired 
it?  Which  is  madder,  the  Russian  priest  who 
discourages  righteous  rebellion,  or  the  Russian 
novelist  who  forbids  it  ?  That  is  the  final  and  the 
blasting  test.  The  world  left  to  itself  grows 
wilder  than  any  creed.  A  few  days  ago  you  and 
I  were  the  maddest  people  in  England.  Now,  by 
God!  I  believe  we  are  the  sanest.  That  is  the 
only  real  question — whether  the  Church  is  really 
madder  than  the  world.  Let  the  rationalists  run 
their  own  race,  and  let  us  see  where  they  end.  If 
the  world  has  some  healthy  balance  other  than 
God,  let  the  world  find  it.  Does  the  world  find 
it?  Cut  the  world  loose,"  he  cried  with  a  savage 
gesture.  "  Does  the  world  stand  on  its  own  end? 
Does  it  stand,  or  does  it  stagger  ?  " 

Turnbull  remained  silent,  and  Maclan  said  to 
him,  looking  once  more  at  the  earth :  '*  It  stag- 
gers, Turnbull.  It  cannot  stand  by  itself;  you 
know  it  cannot.  It  has  been  the  sorrow  of  your 
life.    Turnbull,  this  garden  is  not  a  dream,  but  an 


THE    LAST    PARLEY  381 

apocalyptic  fulfilment.  This  garden  is  the  world 
gone  mad." 

Turnbull  did  not  move  his  head,  and  he  had 
been  listening  all  the  time;  yet,  somehow,  the 
other  knew  that  for  the  first  time  he  was  listening 
seriously. 

"  The  world  has  gone  mad,"  said  Maclan, 
"  and  it  has  gone  mad  about  Us.  The  world  takes 
the  trouble  to  make  a  big  mistake  about  every 
little  mistake  made  by  the  Church.  That  is  why 
they  have  turned  ten  counties  to  a  madhouse ;  that 
is  why  crowds  of  kindly  people  are  poured  into 
this  filthy  melting-pot.  Now  is  the  judgment  of 
this  world.  The  Prince  of  this  World  is  judged, 
and  he  is  judged  exactly  because  he  is  judging. 
There  is  at  last  one  simple  solution  to  the  quarrel 
between  the  ball  and  the  cross " 

Turnbull  for  the  first  time  started. 

*'  The  ball  and — "  he  repeated. 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  you  ?  "  asked  Mac- 
Ian. 

"  I  had  a  dream,"  said  Turnbull,  thickly  and 
obscurely,  "  in  which  I  saw  the  cross  struck 
crooked  and  the  ball  secure " 

"  I  had  a  dream,"  said  Maclan,  "  in  which  I 
saw  the  cross  erect  and  the  ball  invisible.    They 


382     THE    BALL    AND    THE    CROSS 

were  both  dreams  from  hell.  There  must  be  some 
round  earth  to  plant  the  cross  upon.  But  here  is 
the  awful  difference — that  the  round  world  will 
not  consent  even  to  continue  round.  The  astron- 
omers are  always  telling  us  that  it  is  shaped  like 
an  orange,  or  like  an  egg,  or  like  a  German 
sausage.  They  beat  the  old  world  about  like  a 
bladder  and  thump  it  into  a  thousand  shapeless 
shapes.  Turnbull,  we  cannot  trust  the  ball  to  be 
always  a  ball;  we  cannot  trust  reason  to  be  rea- 
sonable. In  the  end  the  great  terrestrial  globe 
will  go  quite  lop-sided,  and  only  the  cross  will 
stand  upright." 

There  was  a  long  silence,  and  then  Turnbull 
said,  hesitatingly :  "  Has  it  occurred  to  you  that 
since — since  those  two  dreams,  or  whatever  they 
were " 

"  Well  ?  "  murmured  Maclan. 

"  Since  then,"  went  on  Turnbull,  in  the  same 
low  voice,  "  since  then  we  have  never  even  looked 
for  our  swords." 

"  You  are  right,"  answered  Evan  almost  in- 
audibly.  "  We  have  found  something  which  we 
both  hate  more  than  we  ever  hated  each  other, 
and  I  think  I  know  its  name." 

Turnbull  seemed  to  frown  and  flinch  for  a  mo- 


THE    LAST    PARLEY  383 

ment.  "  It  does  not  much  matter  what  you  call 
it,"  he  said,  "  so  long  as  you  keep  out  of  its  way." 

The  bushes  broke  and  snapped  abruptly  behind 
them,  and  a  very  tall  figure  towered  above  Turn- 
bull  with  an  arrogant  stoop  and  a  projecting  chin, 
a  chin  of  which  the  shape  showed  queerly  even  in 
its  shadow  upon  the  path. 

"  You  see  that  is  not  so  easy,"  said  Maclan  be- 
tween his  teeth. 

They  looked  up  into  the  eyes  of  the  Master,  but 
looked  only  for  a  moment.  The  eyes  were  full  of 
a  frozen  and  icy  wrath,  a  kind  of  utterly  heart- 
less hatred.  His  voice  was  for  the  first  time  devoid 
of  irony.  There  was  no  more  sarcasm  in  it  than 
there  is  in  an  iron  club. 

"  You  will  be  inside  the  building  in  three  min- 
utes," he  said,  with  pulverising  precision,  "  or  you 
will  be  fired  on  by  the  artillery  at  all  the  windows. 
There  is  too  much  talking  in  this  garden;  we 
intend  to  close  it.  You  will  be  accommodated 
indoors." 

"  Ah !  "  said  Maclan,  with  a  long  and  satisfied 
sigh,  "  then  I  was  right." 

And  he  turned  his  back  and  walked  obediently 
toward  the  building.  Turnbull  seemed  to  canvass 
for  a  few  minutes  the  notion  of  knocking  the 


384    THE    BALL   AND    THE    CROSS 

Master  down,  and  then  fell  under  the  same  almost 
fairy  fatalism  as  his  companion.  In  some  strange 
way  it  did  seem  that  the  more  smoothly  they 
yielded,  the  more  swiftly  would  events  sweep  on 
to  some  great  collision. 


CHAPTER    XX 


DIES    IR^ 


As  they  advanced  toward  the  asylum  they 
looked  up  at  its  rows  on  rows  of  windows,  and 
understood  the  Master's  material  threat.  By 
means  of  that  complex  but  concealed  machinery 
which  ran  like  a  network  of  nerves  over  the  whole 
fabric,  there  had  been  shot  out  under  every  win- 
dow-ledge rows  and  rows  of  polished-steel  cylin- 
ders, the  cold  miracles  of  modern  gunnery.  They 
commanded  the  whole  garden  and  the  whole 
country  side,  and  could  have  blown  to  pieces  an 
army  corps. 

This  silent  declaration  of  war  had  evidently 
had  its  complete  effect.  As  Maclan  and  Turn- 
bull  walked  steadily  but  slowly  toward  the  en- 
trance hall  of  the  institution,  they  could  see  that 
most,  or  at  least  many,  of  the  patients  had  already 
gathered  there  as  well  as  the  staff  of  doctors  and 
the  whole  regiment  of  keepers  and  assistants. 
But  when  they  entered  the  lamp-lit  hall,  and  the 
38s 


386    THE    BALL   AND    THE    CROSS 

high  iron  door  was  clashed  to  and  locked  behind 
them,  yet  a  new  amazement  leapt  into  their  eyes, 
and  the  stalwart  Turnbull  almost  fell.  For  he 
saw  a  sight  which  was  indeed,  as  Maclan  had  said 
— either  the  Day  of  Judgment  or  a  dream. 

Within  a  few  feet  of  him  at  one  corner  of  the 
square  of  standing  people  stood  the  girl  he  had 
known  in  Jersey,  Madeleine  Durand.  She  looked 
straight  at  him  with  a  steady  smile  which  lit  up 
that  scene  of  darkness  and  unreason  like  the  light 
of  some  honest  fireside.  Her  square  face  and 
throat  were  thrown  back,  as  her  habit  was,  and 
there  was  something  almost  sleepy  in  the  genial- 
ity of  her  eyes.  He  saw  her  first,  and  for  a  few 
seconds  saw  her  only ;  then  the  outer  edge  of  his 
eyesight  took  in  all  the  other  staring  faces,  and 
he  saw  all  the  faces  he  had  ever  seen  for  weeks 
and  months  past.  There  was  the  Tolstoyan  in 
Jaeger  flannel,  with  the  yellow  beard  that  went 
backward  and  the  foolish  nose  and  eyes  that  went 
forward,  with  the  curiosity  of  a  crank.  He  was 
talking  eagerly  to  Mr.  Gordon,  the  corpulent  Jew 
shopkeeper  whom  they  had  once  gagged  in  his 
own  shop.  There  was  the  tipsy  old  Hertfordshire 
rustic;  he  was  talking  energetically  to  himself. 
There  was  not  only  Mr.  Vane  the  magistrate,  but 


DIES    IR^  387 

the  clerk  of  Mr.  Vane,  the  magistrate.  There  was 
not  only  Miss  Drake  of  the  motor-car,  but  also 
Miss  Drake's  chauffeur.  Nothing  wild  or  unfa- 
miliar could  have  produced  upon  Turnbull  such  a 
nightmare  impression  as  that  ring  of  familiar 
faces.  Yet  he  had  one  Intellectual  shock  which 
was  greater  than  all  the  others.  He  stepped  im- 
pulsively forward  toward  Madeleine,  and  then 
wavered  with  a  kind  of  wild  humility.  As  he  did 
so  he  caught  sight  of  another  square  face  behind 
Madeleine's,  a  face  with  long  gray  whiskers  and 
an  austere  stare.  It  was  old  Durand,  the  girl's 
father;  and  when  Turnbull  saw  him  he  saw  the 
last  and  worst  marvel  of  that  monstrous  night. 
He  remembered  Durand ;  he  remembered  his  mo- 
notonous, everlasting  lucidity,  his  stupefy ingly 
sensible  views  of  everything,  his  colossal  content- 
ment with  truisms  merely  because  they  were  true. 
"  Confound  it  all !  "  cried  Turnbull  to  himself, 
"  if  he  is  in  the  asylum,  there  can't  be  any  one 
outside."  He  drew  nearer  to  Madeleine,  but  still 
doubtfully  and  all  the  more  so  because  she  still 
smiled  at  him.  Maclan  had  already  gone  across 
to  Beatrice  with  an  air  of  right. 

Then  all  these  bewildered  but  partly  amicable 
recognitions  were  cloven  by  a  cruel  voice  which 


388    THE    BALL   AND    THE    CROSS 

always  made  all  human  blood  turn  bitter.  The 
Master  was  standing  in  the  middle  of  the  room 
surveying  the  scene  like  a  great  artist  looking  at 
a  completed  picture.  Handsome  as  he  looked, 
they  had  never  seen  so  clearly  what  was  really 
hateful  in  his  face ;  and  even  then  they  could  only 
express  it  by  saying  that  the  arched  brows  and 
the  long  emphatic  chin  gave  it  always  a  look  of 
being  lit  from  below,  like  the  face  of  some  infer- 
nal actor, 

"  This  is  indeed  a  cosy  party,"  he  said  with 
glittering  eyes. 

The  Master  evidently  meant  to  say  more,  but 
before  he  could  say  anything  M.  Durand  had 
stepped  right  up  to  him  and  was  speaking. 

He  was  speaking  exactly  as  a  French  bourgeois 
speaks  to  the  manager  of  a  restaurant.  That  is, 
he  spoke  with  rattling  and  breathless  rapidity,  but 
with  no  incoherence,  and  therefore  with  no  emo- 
tion. It  was  a  steady,  monotonous  vivacity, 
which  came  not  seemingly  from  passion,  but 
merely  from  the  reason  having  been  sent  off  at  a 
gallop.    He  was  saying  something  like  this : 

"  You  refuse  me  my  half-bottle  of  Medoc,  the 
drink  the  most  wholesome  and  the  most  custom- 
ary.   You  refuse  me  the  company  and  obedience 


DIES    IR^  389 

of  my  daughter,  which  Nature  herself  indicates. 
You  refuse  me  the  beef  and  mutton,  without  pre- 
tence that  it  is  a  fast  of  the  Church.  You  now 
forbid  me  the  promenade,  a  thing  necessary  to  a 
person  of  my  age.  It  is  useless  to  tell  me  that 
you  do  all  this  by  law.  Law  rests  upon  the  social 
contract.  If  the  citizen  finds  himself  despoiled  of 
such  pleasures  and  powers  as  he  would  have  had 
even  in  the  savage  state,  the  social  contract  is  an- 
nulled." 

"  It's  no  good  chattering  away,  Monsieur," 
said  Hutton,  for  the  Master  was  silent.  "  The 
place  is  covered  with  machine  guns.  We've  got 
to  obey  our  orders,  and  so  have  you." 

"  The  machinery  is  of  the  most  perfect,"  as- 
sented Durand,  somewhat  irrelevantly ;  "  worked 
by  petroleum,  I  believe.  I  only  ask  you  to  admit 
that  if  such  things  fall  below  the  comfort  of  bar- 
barism, the  social  contract  is  annulled.  It  is  a 
pretty  little  point  of  theory." 

"  Oh !  I  daresay,"  said  Hutton. 

Durand  bowed  quite  civilly  and  withdrew. 

"A  cosy  party,"  resumed  the  Master,  scorn- 
fully, "  and  yet  I  believe  some  of  you  are  in  doubt 
about  how  we  all  came  together.  I  will  explain 
it,  ladies  and  gentlemen;  I  will  explain  every- 


390    THE    BALL   AND    THE    CROSS 

thing.  To  whom  shall  I  specially  address  my- 
self? To  Mr.  James  Turnbull.  He  has  a  scien- 
tific mind." 

Turnbull  seemed  to  choke  with  sudden  protest. 
The  Master  seemed  only  to  cough  out  of  pure 
politeness  and  proceeded :  "  Mr.  Turnbull  will 
agree  with  me,"  he  said,  "  when  I  say  that  we 
long  felt  in  scientific  circles  that  great  harm 
was  done  by  such  a  legend  as  that  of  the  Cru- 
cifixion." 

Turnbull  growled  something  which  was  pre- 
sumably assent. 

The  Master  went  on  smoothly :  "  It  was  in  vain 
for  us  to  urge  that  the  incident  was  irrelevant; 
that  there  were  many  such  fanatics,  many  such 
executions.  We  were  forced  to  take  the  thing 
thoroughly  in  hand,  to  investigate  it  in  the  spirit 
of  scientific  history,  and  with  the  assistance  of 
Mr.  Turnbull  and  others  we  were  happy  in  being 
able  to  announce  that  this  alleged  Crucifixion 
never  occurred  at  all." 

Maclan  lifted  his  head  and  looked  at  the  Mas- 
ter steadily,  but  Turnbull  did  not  look  up. 

"  This,  we  found,  was  the  only  way  with  all 
superstitions,"  continued  the  speaker ;  "  it  was 
necessary  to  deny  them  historically,  and  we  have 


DIES    IR^  39-1 

done  it  with  great  success  in  the  case  of  miracles 
and  such  things.  Now  within  our  own  time  there 
arose  an  unfortunate  fuss  which  threatened  (as 
Mr.  Tumbull  would  say)  to  galvanise  the  corpse 
of  Christianity  into  a  fictitious  life — the  alleged 
case  of  a  Highland  eccentric  who  wanted  to  fight 
for  the  Virgin." 

Maclan,  quite  white,  made  a  step  forward,  but 
the  speaker  did  not  alter  his  easy  attitude  or  his 
flow  of  words.  "  Again  we  urged  that  this  duel 
was  not  to  be  admired,  that  it  was  a  mere  brawl, 
but  the  people  were  ignorant  and  romantic.  There 
were  signs  of  treating  this  alleged  Highlander 
and  his  alleged  opponent  as  heroes.  We  tried  all 
other  means  of  arresting  this  reactionary  hero 
worship.  Working  men  who  betted  on  the  duel 
were  imprisoned  for  gambling.  Working  men 
who  drank  the  health  of  a  duellist  were  impris- 
oned for  drunkenness.  But  the  popular  excite- 
ment about  the  alleged  duel  continued,  and  we 
had  to  fall  back  on  our  old  historical  method.  We 
investigated,  on  scientific  principles,  the  story  of 
Maclan's  challenge,  and  we  are  happy  to  be  able 
to  inform  you  that  the  whole  story  of  the  at- 
tempted duel  is  a  fable.  There  never  was  any 
challenge.    There   never  was   any  man   named 


392    THE    BALL    AND    THE    CROSS 

Maclan.  It  is  a  melodramatic  myth,  like  Cal- 
vary." 

Not  a  soul  moved  save  Turnbull,  who  lifted  his 
head ;  yet  there  was  the  sense  of  a  silent  explosion, 

"  The  whole  story  of  the  Maclan  challenge," 
went  on  the  Master,  beaming  at  them  all  with  a 
sinister  benignity,  "  has  been  found  to  originate 
in  the  obsessions  of  a  few  pathological  types,  who 
are  now  all  fortunately  in  our  care.  There  is,  for 
instance,  a  person  here  of  the  name  of  Gordon, 
formerly  the  keeper  of  a  curiosity  shop.  He  is  a 
victim  of  the  disease  called  Vinculomania — the 
impression  that  one  has  been  bound  or  tied  up. 
We  have  also  a  case  of  Fugacity  (Mr.  Whimpey), 
who  imagines  that  he  was  chased  by  two  men." 

The  indignant  faces  of  the  Jew  shopkeeper  and 
the  Magdalen  Don  started  out  of  the  crowd  in 
their  indignation,  but  the  speaker  continued : 

"  One  poor  woman  we  have  with  us,"  he  said, 
in  a  compassionate  voice,  "  believes  she  was  in  a 
motor-car  with  two  such  men ;  this  is  the  well- 
known  illusion  of  speed  on  which  I  need  not 
dwell.  Another  wretched  woman  has  the  simple 
egotistic  mania  that  she  has  caused  the  duel. 
Madeleine  Durand  actually  professes  to  have  been 
the  subject  of  the  fight  between  Maclan  and  his 


DIES    IR^  393 

enemy,  a  fight  which,  if  it  occurred  at  all,  certainly 
began  long  before.  But  it  never  occurred  at  all. 
We  have  taken  in  hand  every  person  who  pro- 
fessed to  have  seen  such  a  thing,  and  proved  them 
all  to  be  unbalanced.    That  is  why  they  are  here." 

The  Master  looked  round  the  room,  just  show- 
ing his  perfect  teeth  with  the  perfection  of  artistic 
cruelty,  exalted  for  a  moment  in  the  enormous 
simplicity  of  his  success,  and  then  walked  across 
the  hall  and  vanished  through  an  inner  door.  His 
two  lieutenants,  Quayle  and  Hutton,  were  left 
standing  at  the  head  of  the  great  army  of  servants 
and  keepers. 

"  I  hope  we  shall  have  no  more  trouble,"  said 
Dr.  Quayle  pleasantly  enough,  and  addressing 
Turnbull,  who  was  leaning  heavily  upon  the  back 
of  a  chair. 

Still  looking  down,  Turnbull  lifted  the  chair  an 
inch  or  two  from  the  ground.  Then  he  suddenly 
swung  it  above  his  head  and  sent  it  at  the  inquir- 
ing doctor  with  an  awful  crash  which  sent  one  of 
its  wooden  legs  loose  along  the  floor  and  crammed 
the  doctor  gasping  into  a  comer.  Maclan  gave  a 
great  shout,  snatched  up  the  loose  chair-leg,  and, 
rushing  on  the  other  doctor,  felled  him  with  a 
blow.    Twenty  attendants  rushed  to  capture  the 


394    THE    BALL    AND    THE    CROSS 

rebels;  Maclan  flung  back  three  of  them  and 
Turnbull  went  over  on  top  of  one,  when  from 
behind  them  all  came  a  shriek  as  of  something 
quite  fresh  and  frightful. 

Two  of  the  three  passages  leading  out  of  the 
hall  were  choked  with  blue  smoke.  Another  in- 
stant and  the  hall  was  full  of  the  fog  of  it,  and 
red  sparks  began  to  swarm  like  scarlet  bees. 

"  The  place  is  on  fire ! "  cried  Ouayle  with  a 
scream  of  indecent  terror.  "  Oh,  who  can  have 
done  it?    How  can  it  have  happened?  " 

A  light  had  come  into  Turnbull's  eyes.  "  How 
did  the  French  Revolution  happen  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Oh,  how  should  I  know !  "  wailed  the  other. 

"  Then  I  will  tell  you,"  said  Turnbull;  "  it  hap- 
pened because  some  people  fancied  that  a  French 
grocer  was  as  respectable  as  he  looked." 

Even  as  he  spoke,  as  if  by  confirmation,  old  Mr. 
Durand  re-entered  the  smoky  room  quite  placidly, 
wiping  the  petroleum  from  his  hands  with  a 
handkerchief.  He  had  set  fire  to  the  building  in 
accordance  with  the  strict  principles  of  the  social 
contract. 

But  Maclan  had  taken  a  stride  forward  and 
stood  there  shaken  and  terrible.  "  Now,"  he 
cried,  panting,  "  now  is  the  judgment  of  this 


DIES    IR^  395 

world.  The  doctors  will  leave  this  place;  the 
keepers  will  leave  this  place.  They  will  leave  us 
in  charge  of  the  machinery  and  the  machine  guns 
at  the  windows.  But  we,  the  lunatics,  will  wait 
to  be  burned  alive  if  only  we  may  see  them  go." 

"  How  do  you  know  we  shall  go  ?  "  asked  Hut- 
ton,  fiercely. 

"  You  believe  nothing,"  said  Maclan,  simply, 
"  and  you  are  insupportably  afraid  of  death." 

"  So  this  is  suicide,"  sneered  the  doctor ;  "  a 
somewhat  doubtful  sign  of  sanity." 

"  Not  at  all — this  is  vengeance,"  answered 
Turnbull,  quite  calmly ;  "  a  thing  which  is  com- 
pletely healthy." 

"  You  think  the  doctors  will  go,"  said  Hutton, 
savagely. 

"  The  keepers  have  gone  already,"  said  Turn- 
bull. 

Even  as  they  spoke  the  main  doors  were  burst 
open  in  mere  brutal  panic,  and  all  the  officers  and 
subordinates  of  the  asylum  rushed  away  across 
the  garden  pursued  by  the  smoke.  But  among 
the  ticketed  maniacs  not  a  man  or  woman  moved. 

"  We  hate  dying,"  said  Turnbull,  with  compo- 
sure, "  but  we  hate  you  even  more.  This  is  a  suc- 
cessful revolution." 


396    THE    BALL    AND    THE    CROSS 

In  the  roof  above  their  heads  a  panel  shot  back, 
showing  a  strip  of  star-Ht  sky  and  a  huge  thing 
made  of  white  metal,  with  the  shape  and  fins  of  a 
fish,  swinging  as  if  at  anchor.  At  the  same  mo- 
ment a  steel  ladder  slid  down  from  the  opening 
and  struck  the  floor,  and  the  cleft  chin  of  the 
mysterious  Master  was  thrust  into  the  opening. 
"  Quayle,  Hutton,"  he  said,  "  you  will  escape  with 
me."  And  they  went  up  the  ladder  like  automata 
of  lead. 

Long  after  they  had  clambered  into  the  car,  the 
creature  with  the  cloven  face  continued  to  leer 
down  upon  the  smoke-stung  crowd  below.  Then 
at  last  he  said  in  a  silken  voice  and  with  a  smile 
of  final  satisfaction : 

"  By  the  way,  I  fear  I  am  very  absent  minded. 
There  is  one  man  specially  whom,  somehow,  I  al- 
ways forget.  I  always  leave  him  lying  about. 
Once  I  mislaid  him  on  the  Cross  of  St.  Paul's. 
So  silly  of  me;  and  now  I've  forgotten  him 
in  one  of  those  little  cells  where  your  fire  is 
burning.  Very  unfortunate — especially  for  him." 
And  nodding  genially,  he  climbed  into  his  flying 
ship. 

Maclan  stood  motionless  for  two  minutes,  and 
then  rushed  down  one  of  the  suffocating  corridors 


DIES    IR^  397 

till  he  found  the  flames.    Turnbull  looked  once  at 
Madeleine,  and  followed. 

Maclan,  with  singed  hair,  smoking  garments, 
and  smarting  hands  and  face,  had  already  broken 
far  enough  through  the  first  barriers  of  burning 
timber  to  come  within  cry  of  the  cells  he  had  once 
known.  It  was  impossible,  however,  to  see  the 
spot  where  the  old  man  lay  dead  or  alive ;  not  now 
through  darkness,  but  through  scorching  and 
aching  light.  The  site  of  the  old  half-wit's  cell 
was  now  the  heart  of  a  standing  forest  of  fire — 
the  flames  as  thick  and  yellow  as  a  corn  field. 
Their  incessant  shrieking  and  crackling  was  like  a 
mob  shouting  against  an  orator.  Yet  through  all 
that  deafening  density  Maclan  thought  he  heard 
a  small  and  separate  sound.  When  he  heard  it 
he  rushed  forward  as  if  to  plunge  into  that  fur- 
nace, but  Turnbull  arrested  him  by  an  elbow. 

"  Let  me  go !  "  cried  Evan,  in  agony ;  *'  it's  the 
poor  old  beggar's  voice — he's  still  alive,  and 
shouting  for  help." 

"  Listen !  "  said  Turnbull,  and  lifted  one  finger 
from  his  clenched  hand. 

"  Or  else  he  is  shrieking  with  pain,"  protested 
Maclan.    "  I  will  not  endure  it." 


398    THE    BALL   AND    THE    CROSS 

"  Listen !  "  repeated  Turnbtill,  grimly.  "  Did 
you  ever  hear  any  one  shout  for  help  or  shriek 
with  pain  in  that  voice?  " 

The  small  shrill  sounds  which  came  through 
the  crash  of  the  conflagration  were  indeed  of  an 
odd  sort,  and  Maclan  turned  a  face  of  puzzled 
inquiry  to  his  companion. 

"  He  is  singing,"  said  Turnbull,  simply. 

A  remaining  rampart  fell,  crushing  the  fire,  and 
through  the  diminished  din  of  it  the  voice  of  the 
little  old  lunatic  came  clearer.  In  the  heart  of  that 
white-hot  hell  he  was  singing  like  a  bird.  What 
he  was  singing  it  was  not  very  easy  to  follow,  but 
it  seemed  to  be  something  about  playing  in  the 
golden  hay. 

"  Good  Lord !  "  said  Turnbull,  bitterly,  "  there 
seem  to  be  some  advantages  in  really  being 
an  idiot."  Then  advancing  to  the  fringe  of 
the  fire  he  called  out  on  chance  to  the  invis- 
ible singer :  "  Can  you  come  out  ?  Are  you  cut 
ofif?" 

"  God  help  us  all !  "  said  Maclan,  with  a  shud- 
der ;  "  he's  laughing  now." 

At  whatever  stage  of  being  burned  alive  the 
invisible  now  found  himself,  he  was  now  shaking 
out  peals  of  silvery  and  hilarious  laughter.    As  he 


DIES    IR^  399 

listened,  Maclan's  two  eyes  began  to  glow,  as  if 
a  strange  thought  had  come  into  his  head. 

"  Fool,  come  out  and  save  yourself !  "  shouted 
Turnbull. 

"  No,  by  Heaven !  that  is  not  the  way,"  cried 
Evan,  suddenly.  "  Father,"  he  shouted,  "  come 
out  and  save  us  all !  " 

The  fire,  though  it  had  dropped  in  one  or  two 
places,  was,  upon  the  whole,  higher  and  more  un- 
conquerable than  ever.  Separate  tall  flames  shot 
up  and  spread  out  above  them  like  the  fiery  clois- 
ters of  some  infernal  cathedral,  or  like  a  grove  of 
red  tropical  trees  in  the  garden  of  the  devil. 
Higher  yet  in  the  purple  hollow  of  the  night  the 
topmost  flames  leapt  again  and  again  fruitlessly 
at  the  stars,  like  golden  dragons  chained  but 
struggling.  The  towers  and  domes  of  the  op- 
pressive smoke  seemed  high  and  far  enough  to 
drown  distant  planets  in  a  London  fog.  But  if 
we  exhausted  all  frantic  similes  for  that  frantic 
scene,  the  main  impression  about  the  fire  would 
still  be  its  ranked  upstanding  rigidity  and  a  sort 
of  roaring  stillness.    It  was  literally  a  wall  of  fire. 

"  Father,"  cried  Maclan,  once  more,  "  come 
out  of  it  and  save  us  all !  "  Turnbull  was  staring 
at  him  as  he  cried. 


400    THE    BALL    AND    THE    CROSS 

The  tall  and  steady  forest  of  fire  must  have 
been  already  a  portent  visible  to  the  whole  circle 
of  land  and  sea.  The  red  flush  of  it  lit  up  the 
long  sides  of  white  ships  far  out  in  the  German 
Ocean,  and  picked  out  like  piercing  rubies  the  win- 
dows in  the  villages  on  the  distant  heights.  If 
any  villagers  or  sailors  were  looking  toward  it 
they  must  have  seen  a  strange  sight  as  Maclan 
cried  out  for  the  third  time. 

That  forest  of  fire  wavered,  and  was  cloven  in 
the  centre;  and  then  the  whole  of  one  half  of  it 
leaned  one  way  as  a  corn  field  leans  all  one  way 
under  the  load  of  the  wind.  Indeed,  it  looked  as 
if  a  great  wind  had  sprung  up  and  driven  the 
great  fire  aslant.  Its  smoke  was  no  longer  sent 
up  to  choke  the  stars,  but  was  trailed  and  dragged 
across  county  after  county  like  one  dreadful  ban- 
ner of  defeat. 

But  it  was  not  the  wind ;  or,  if  it  was  the  wind, 
it  was  two  winds  blowing  in  opposite  directions. 
For  while  one  half  of  the  huge  fire  sloped  one 
way  toward  the  inland  heights,  the  other  half,  at 
exactly  the  same  angle,  sloped  out  eastward  to- 
ward the  sea.  So  that  earth  and  ocean  could  be- 
hold, where  there  had  been  a  mere  fiery  mass,  a 
thing  divided  like  a  V — a  cloven  tongue  of  flame. 


DIES    IR^  401 

But  if  it  were  a  prodigy  for  those  distant,  it  was 
something  beyond  speech  for  those  quite  near.  As 
the  echoes  of  Evan's  last  appeal  rang  and  died  in 
the  universal  uproar,  the  fiery  vault  over  his  head 
opened  down  the  middle,  and,  reeling  back  in  two 
great  golden  billows,  hung  on  each  side  as  huge 
and  harmless  as  two  sloping  hills  lie  on  each  side 
of  a  valley.  Down  the  centre  of  this  trough,  or 
chasm,  a  little  path  ran,  cleared  of  all  but  ashes, 
and  down  this  little  path  was  walking  a  little  old 
man  singing  as  if  he  were  alone  in  a  wood  in 
spring. 

When  James  TurnbuU  saw  this  he  suddenly 
put  out  a  hand  and  seemed  to  support  himself  on 
the  strong  shoulder  of  Madeleine  Durand.  Then 
after  a  moment's  hesitation  he  put  his  other  hand 
on  the  shoulder  of  Maclan.  His  blue  eyes  looked 
extraordinarily  brilliant  and  beautiful.  In  many 
sceptical  papers  and  magazines  afterward  he  was 
sadly  or  sternly  rebuked  for  having  abandoned 
the  certainties  of  materialism.  All  his  life  up  to 
that  moment  he  had  been  most  honestly  certain 
that  materialism  was  a  fact.  But  he  was  unlike 
the  writers  in  the  magazines  precisely  in  this — 
that  he  preferred  a  fact  even  to  materialism. 

As  the  little  singing  figure  came  nearer  and 


402    THE    BALL   AND    THE    CROSS 

nearer,  Evan  fell  on  his  knees,  and  after  an  in- 
stant Beatrice  followed ;  then  Madeleine  fell  on  her 
knees,  and  after  a  longer  instant  Turnbull  fol- 
lowed. Then  the  little  old  man  went  past  them 
singing-  down  that  corridor  of  flames.  They  had 
not  looked  at  his  face. 

When  he  had  passed  they  looked  up.  While 
the  first  light  of  the  fire  had  shot  east  and  west, 
painting  the  sides  of  ships  with  fire-light  or  strik- 
ing red  sparks  out  of  windowed  houses,  it  had  not 
hitherto  struck  upward,  for  there  was  above  it 
the  ponderous  and  rococo  cavern  of  its  own  mon- 
strous coloured  smoke.  But  now  the  fire  was 
turned  to  left  and  right  like  a  woman's  hair  parted 
in  the  middle,  and  now  the  shafts  of  its  light  could 
shoot  up  into  empty  heavens  and  strike  any- 
thing, either  bird  or  cloud.  But  it  struck  some- 
thing that  was  neither  cloud  nor  bird.  Far,  far 
away  up  in  those  huge  hollows  of  space  something 
was  flying  swiftly  and  shining  brightly,  some- 
thing that  shone  too  bright  and  flew  too  fast  to 
be  any  of  the  fowls  of  the  air,  though  the  red 
light  lit  it  from  underneath  like  the  breast  of  a 
bird.  Every  one  knew  it  was  a  flying  ship,  and 
every  one  knew  whose. 

As  they  stared  upward  the  little  speck  of  light 


DIES    IR^  403 

seemed  slightly  tilted,  and  two  black  dots  dropped 
from  the  edge  of  it.  All  the  eager,  upturned  faces 
watched  the  two  dots  as  they  grew  bigger  and 
bigger  in  their  downward  rush.  Then  some  one 
screamed,  and  no  one  looked  up  any  more.  For 
the  two  bodies,  larger  every  second  flying,  spread 
out  and  sprawling  in  the  fire-light,  were  the  dead 
bodies  of  the  two  doctors  whom  Professor  Luci- 
fer had  carried  with  him — the  weak  and  sneering 
Quayle,  the  cold  and  clumsy  Hutton.  They  went 
with  a  crash  into  the  thick  of  the  fire. 

"  They  are  gone !  "  screamed  Beatrice,  hiding 
her  head.    "  O  God !    They  are  lost !  " 

Evan  put  his  arm  about  her,  and  remembered 
his  own  vision. 

"  No,  they  are  not  lost,"  he  said.  "  They  are 
saved.  He  has  taken  away  no  souls  with  him, 
after  all." 

He  looked  vaguely  about  at  the  fire  that  was 
already  fading,  and  there  among  the  ashes  lay 
two  shining  things  that  had  survived  the  fire,  his 
sword  and  Turnbull's,  fallen  haphazard  in  the 
pattern  of  a  cross. 

THE   END 


THE  COMPLETE  WORKS 

OF 

WILLIAM  J.  LOCKE 

••Life  is  a  glorious  thing." — W.J,  Locke 

"  If  you  wish  to  be  lifted  out  of  the  petty  cares  of  to-day,  read  one 
of  Locke's  novels.  You  may  select  any  from  the  following  titles  and 
be  certain  of  meeting  some  new  and  delightful  friends.  His  char- 
acters are  worth  knowing." — Baltimore  Sun. 

The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne  The  Demagogue  and  Lady  Phayre 

At  the  Gate  of  Samaria  The  Beloved  Vagabond 

A  Study  in  Shadows  The  White  Dove 

Where  Love  Is  The  Usurper 

Derelicts  Septimus  Idols 

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The  Beloved  Vagabond 

"  '  The  Beloved  Vagabond '  is  a  gently-written,  fascinating  tale. 
Make  his  acquaintance  some  dreary,  rain-soaked  evening  and  find 
the  vagabond  nerve-thrilling  in  your  own  heart." 

— Chicago  Record-Herald. 

Septimus 

"Septimus  is  the  joy  of  the  year." — American  Magazine* 

The  Morals  of  Marcus  Ordeyne 

"  A  literary  event  of  the  first  importance." — Boston  Herald. 
"  One  of  those  rare  and  much-to-be-desired  stories  which  keep  one 
divided  between  an  interested  impatience  to  get  on,  and  an  irresis- 
tible temptation  to  linger  for  full  enjoyment  by  the  way."— Z(^. 

Where  Love  Is 

"  A  capital  story  told  with  skill." — New  York  Evening  Sun, 
"One  of  those  unusual  novels  of  which  the  end  is  as  good  as  the 
beginning." — New  York  Globe. 


WILLIAM  J.  LOCKE 
The  Usurper 

"  Contains  the  hall-mark  of  genius  itself.  The  plot  is  masterly  in 
conception,  the  descriptions  are  all  vivid  flashes  from  a  brilliant 
pen.  It  is  impossible  to  read  and  not  marvel  at  the  skilled  work- 
manship and  the  constant  dramatic  intensity  of  the  incident,  situ- 
ations and  climax." —  The  Boston  Herald, 

Derelicts 

"  Mr.  Locke  tells  his  story  in  a  very  true,  a  very  moving,  and  a 
very  noble  book.  If  any  one  can  read  the  last  chapter  with  dry 
eyes  we  shall  be  surprised.  '  Derelicts  '  is  an  impressive,  an  im- 
portant book.  Yvonne  is  a  creation  that  any  artist  might  be  proud 
oV— The  Daily  Chronicle. 

Idols 

"  One  of  the  very  few  distinguished  novels  of  this  present  book 

season." — The  Daily  Mail. 

"  A  brilliantly  written  and  eminently  readable  book." 

—  The  London  Daily  Telegraph. 

A  Study  in  Shadows 

"  Mr.  Locke  has  achieved  a  distinct  success  in  this  novel.  He  has 
struck  many  emotional  chords,  and  struck  them  all  with  a  firm, 
sure  hand.  In  the  relations  between  Katherine  and  Raine  he  had 
a  delicate  problem  to  handle,  and  he  has  handled  it  delicately." 

—  The  Daily  Chronicle. 

The  White  Dove 

*'  It  is  an  interesting  story.  The  characters  are  strongly  conceived 
and  vividly  presented,  and  the  dramatic  moments  are  powerfully 
realized." — The  Morning  Post. 

The  Demagogue  and  Lady  Phayre 

"  Think  of  Locke's  clever  books.  Then  think  of  a  book  as  differ- 
ent from  any  of  these  as  one  can  well  imagine — that  will  be  Mr. 
Locke's  new  book." — New  York  World. 

At  the  Gate  of  Samaria 

•'  William  J.  Locke's  novels  are  nothing  if  not  unusual.  They  are 
marked  by  a  quaint  originality.  The  habitual  novel  reader  inevi- 
tably is  grateful  for  a  refreshing  sense  of  escaping  the  common- 
place path  of  conclusion." — Chicago  Record- Herald. 


ANATOLE    FRANCE 

"  Anatole  France  is  a  writer  whose  personality  is  very  strongly  reflected  in  his 
works.  ,  .  .  To  reproduce  his  evanescent  grace  and  charm  is  not  to  be  lightly 
achieved,  but  the  translators  have  done  their  work  with  care,  distinction,  and 
a  very  happy  sense  of  the  value  of  words."  — Daily  Graphic. 

"  We  must  now  all  read  all  of  Anatole  France.  The  offer  is  too  good  to  be 
shirked.      He  is  just  Anatole   France,    the  greatest    living  writer  of   French. 

— Daily  Chronicle. 

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The  Red  Lily.    Translated  by  Winifred  Stephens. 

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Mother  of  Pearl.     Translated  by  Frederic  Chapman, 
Containing : 

The  Procurator  of  Judea  Amycus  and  Celestine 

Our  Lady's  Juggler  Madam  de  Luzy,  etc. 

The  Garden  of  Epicurus.  Translated  by  Alfred  R. 
Allinson,  Containing: 

In  the  Elysian  Fields  Careers  for  Women 

Card  Houses  The  Priory,  etc. 

The    Crime    of  Sylvestre    Bonnard.    Translated  by 
Lafcadio  Hearn. 

This  novel  was  "  crowned  "  by  the  French  Academy  in  1881,  the 
author  being  received  into  membership  in  1896. 

"  The  highest  presentation  of  France's  many  qualities  and  gifts  is  to  be  found 
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of  Kipling,  in  the  good  old  days  of  Plain  Tales  from  the  Hills." 

— New  York  Globe. 

Mafoota 

A  Romance  of  Jamaica 

"  The  plot  has  a  resemblance  to  that  of  Wilkie  Collins'  '  The  New 
Magdalen,'  but  the  heroine  is  a  puritan  of  the  strictest  type;  the 
subject  matter  is  like  'The  Helpmate.'"  —  Springfield  Republican. 

As  Ye  Have  Sown 

"  A  brilliant  story  dealing  with  the  world  of  fashion." 

Captain  Amyas 

"  Masterly." — San  Francisco  Examiner. 

"Startlingly  plain  spoken." — Louisville  Courier-Journal. 

The  Rat  Trap 

"  The  literary  sensation  of  the  year." — Philadelphia  Item. 

The  Story  of  Eden 

"  Bold  and  outspoken,  a  startling  book." — Chicago  Record-Herald. 

*'  A  real  feeling  of  brilliant  sunshine  and  exhilarating  air." 

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Rose-White  Youth. 

***  The  love-story  of  a  young  girl. 

The  Pathway  of  the  Pioneer. 

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deliberate  training,  though  well  educated.  They  are  introduced  to 
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The  Girl  in  Question 

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